All the Difference
by mysweetone
Summary: Canon/AU. My bookend/prequel to my other story, The Present. Begins 1912. Explores the life of Anthony Strallan and his romance with Edith, as well as his friendship with his valet, Stewart. As Lucius Seneca said, "One of the most beautiful qualities of friendship is to understand and be understood." The same is true of love. Characters belong to Mr. Fellowes, except Stewart.
1. Prologue

_A/N: A backstory for Anthony and his valet, Stewart. Thank you to all of you who expressed such affection and interest in Stewart and this little endeavor! Honestly, I couldn't get this scene out of my head after working on The Present; it could very well be the prologue to that story, too, given that I'm using this as Anthony's motivation to act where Edith's child is concerned. In many ways, it was cathartic just to write it. I hope you like it. Please, as always, thank you for reading and do let me know what you think..._

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><p><em>February, 1912<em>

He'd knocked lightly, walked with soft steps towards her bed. She appeared to still be sleeping, but fitfully. The face, pale in the early sunlight, grimaced as though disturbed by fear or pain and he sought to protect her, wake her from it. "Darling?" Anthony sat gingerly at her bedside.

"When did you get home?" Her voice strained from the effort and she gladly took the glass of water he offered.

"'Twas late, I'm afraid. The meetings lasted much longer; you know how government men can go on." Anthony swept the dark brown hair from her face and smiled at her, took the glass back and set it on the night table. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired…the same, really, but hurting a bit."

"Should I call Dr. Clarkson?"

"Oh no, nothing like that, I'm sure…I think."

Anthony's expression didn't change. The smile remained, a practiced attempt at comfort for her, a distilled version of hope he'd settled on after so many days like the one he knew this would be…fatigued, his wife in pain, yet trying to rest, unable to leave her bed at all for fear of—well, so many fears and so few answers from the previous losses. Every precaution taken by now as they neared the end of the seventh month. Together. They could make it this time, surely.

"Anthony?"

"Hmm? Yes, my love?"

"Thank you."

"What on earth for?"

"Coming home to me."

He tried to quiet her then, quell any mention of the agony of the past—the time he spent away with trips for business or for king and country—but she held up a frail hand.

"No, my dear husband. You've no idea…how much I love you—your patience and how you've been so strong, for me especially." The fragile cracking began first with her familiar smile fading, and then the tears started, and Anthony immediately reached for his handkerchief, wiped them from her cheeks and eyes, still trying to hush her worries and fears.

"It'll be different this time—"

"Why should the two of us having a family—_trying_ so desperately to have one—why should it be so…heartbreaking?" She demanded in a whisper.

Anthony took the handkerchief, tucked it away, and folded both her hands in his. "It will be worth it, won't it? When we hold this little one? See him for the first time—or her." He smiled, willed her to smile with him…

"I love you. I'm trying to be strong, Anthony, I swear!" She lifted her head from the pillow, her near-hysterical whispers imploring him to believe her. "I would've given you—"

"Shhhh. I know, my darling, I know." Anthony frowned at her agitation, her state of mind descending beyond his reach—again. "No one's blaming you; none of this is your fault. I love you; I only want you well and happy. All right?"

"The children we should've had by now—_your _children—" Sobs wracked her body as she tried to sit up. Anthony held her, the sound of her cry enough to sting his own eyes. As he embraced her, she buried her face in the shoulder of his coat as he tried to soothe her.

"_Our _children, darling. Please, shhhh. We mustn't give up hope. This has gone much better than before."

"You deserve so much—"

He pulled away, his arm still supporting her as his hand went to her cheek and he looked into her eyes. "As do you, my darling. And we will have it—together. And then we will give everything we have to our child. I promise. Now, rest. Please, darling."

She refused to let his arm go as he moved to stand, panicked, yet trying to regain her composure. "Will you—will you, please, stay with me?"

"Of course, I will. There's no other place I'd rather be than with…my family." Anthony kissed her palm, held it to his cheek, and then reached to touch the blanket where it covered her belly. "I love you both so very much," he murmured, to the baby inside as much to his wife. He glanced back to her. "I'll retrieve the papers I need from downstairs and be right back, all right? Is there anything else I can get for you? Have Mrs. Brandon bring up something to eat? You know how she loves to dote." The two of them both grinned at that notion, the petite cook lovingly seeing to their every whim in an effort to ensure Lady Strallan and the baby were properly nourished.

"I'm fine right now, thank you. We do have such wonderful people here. You know why, darling?"

Anthony shook his head, aware that his logical explanation would be inadequate compared to hers. "You—well, we—I think it's that we treat them so well, like members of our family."

"They adore you and I can't blame them; you're beautiful and brilliant and funny."

She smiled, sheepish from the compliments, but looked back to him, her eyes gleaming from the moisture of the remaining tears and the sunlight streaming through the brightening room. "Stewart loves you, darling, you're practically a father—" She caught herself and the tears, but she held them off and tried to smile again. "Or at least a much older brother."

Anthony caressed her cheek, his smile and eyes light. "Rest. I shall return in mere moments."

Anthony went to his room, taking a couple of minutes to gather a book and a couple of papers from his night table and then hurried down the corridor. As he descended the stairs to the main foyer on the way to the library to collect additional files for working in her room, he saw Stewart and Grace, his wife's maid there, ready to meet him at the landing, with Stewart holding an envelope of some kind—all three, however, froze when the anguished shriek of Anthony's name erupted from her room.

The gentleman turned and bolted up the stairs, yelled behind him to his valet, "Clarkson—now!"

Grace hurried up the stairs behind Anthony.

Stewart obeyed and was out the door with only his hat and Mrs. Brandon following behind, calling to him, hurried to catch him to give him his coat…

Upstairs, Anthony threw the door open to find Maud in the bed still, but with the covers back and her face ashen.

"Darling?" Anthony moved to take his wife's hand, the hysteria bringing a relentless quivering in her body, and he held her, embraced her gently, trying to calm her—both terrified at the amount of blood. The hemorrhaging…

"It's too soon and it's worse…Anthony…the pain—" Tears streamed down her face as another cry from her echoed in his ears and she gripped his arms so tightly he felt her nails through his sleeves.

"Dr. Clarkson's on his way. Everything will be—" He stopped the inane platitudes from crossing his lips. The minutes became eternal passages of time, the screams—coming at unpredictable intervals and increasingly violent, the merciless moments as he watched life slipping from his grasp, stayed by her side as she begged him. The couple stared at each other, one pleading for the pain to cease and for life and the other for permission to stop and for peace.

Grace replaced the bedding, maneuvered around her, shifted her weight a bit with apologies, and surrounded her with fresh linens and blankets.

Anthony remained by his wife's side with wordless prayers. Somewhere, deep within, Anthony saw it, knew that it wasn't just the baby this time that he would lose…

Stewart beat Dr. Clarkson up the stairs, ushered him in to find Maud's labor already in progress—far too early. Anthony refused to move at first, but Clarkson and Grace insisted they would do everything they could.

Anthony stood in protest, still holding her hand. "No, no—it's never been like this before—she needs me here! Help her for God's sake!"

Clarkson placed a hand on his chest and nodded to Stewart, who appeared torn initially—particularly when another scream and a gasp for air came from Lady Strallan and she clutched her husband's hand tighter. But Stewart reached for his master. When Anthony ripped his arm away, tried to sit again by his wife, his face contorted with fear and panic, Stewart took him by both arms and pulled him up, nearly carrying him from the room and supporting Anthony's body from collapse the entire walk down to the library.

There, Stewart poured Anthony a brandy and the long wait began—the echoes of his wife's agony too much for him to bear as he paced, clenched his jaw with each piercing sound, and paced again. On two different occasions, the screams rang out so sharply Stewart planted himself in Anthony's way at the library door to prevent him from going upstairs. Physically pushing Anthony back, his master glaring at him with a fierceness he'd never seen, Stewart stayed steadfast.

"Let me go to her."

"He's doing his best, Sir—I promise."

The memory of this day, of Anthony's blue eyes red, bleary from the tears, and his voice—the suffering sound of broken whispers—became imprinted…every detail crystallized. For, in reality, Stewart _wanted _to let Anthony go to her; keeping a man from his wife under such circumstances felt wrong, but he knew how dire the situation seemed. She'd always come through before and, yes, it appeared far worse, but surely…

And then it was quiet. For long silent minutes, Anthony stood in front of Stewart as though caught.

Just after one in the afternoon, Dr. Clarkson came down the stairs and when he appeared in the doorway, Stewart and Anthony focused first on his haggard and wary expression and then saw that he held a tiny swaddled bundle. Anthony's heart began to pound, a sudden rush of blood to his head as he stood—surely, he'd been wrong. He took three long strides and before he could touch the infant Dr. Clarkson spoke.

"You need to see her…now…"

Anthony hesitated, not understanding at first, mesmerized by the image of his baby and then trying to make sense of the words.

"Her? What—"

"Go to her—right now."

And he did…in time to see her—asleep? Her shallow breaths evidence of her exhaustion and her body's final seizing of life. He held her hand in both of his as the tears fell—no sounds, just the watery cascade of loss. Grace finished collecting the stained linens that she could and left them alone. Anthony kissed her hand, held it to his lips, and shut his eyes tightly, as his mind tried to find the words, the thoughts, the silent supplications to bring about the miraculous… There were no final words, only the hush of the last breath and her wilted fingers in his.

Anthony made his way back downstairs in shock, said nothing to Clarkson, but only took his child in his arms.

"It's a boy," the doctor offered. "But he's…"

"Philip Ryan…"

Dr. Clarkson and Stewart exchanged worried looks. Anthony walked with his son over to the windows of the Locksley library, the clouds overtaking the sun's rays and heavy drops beginning to dot the panes.

The doctor walked, tentative, and stood beside him. "Sir Anthony, he's not well—"

Anthony looked at Clarkson, a condemned man accepting his tragic sentence, and then walked with his son to the sofa and sat.

"There's nothing to be done; his lungs are…"

Clarkson continued with his medical explanation, but Anthony only stared at his son, the only sound the whisper of short and labored gasps of air, the occasional murmur of Philip's name, the pained declarations of love, the beseeching cries to live…until…almost an hour later…Anthony's only baby to survive outside the womb, slipped from the earth…

Stewart brushed his own tears away, watched as Clarkson tried to coax Anthony to let Philip go. Mrs. Brandon and Grace stood just outside the library, both stricken by the heartache and grief that now engulfed Locksley. The matronly cook could take it no more and she, too, joined Clarkson in helping Anthony let go. Anthony stood even as the two began to take hold of the boy, held him closer in his trembling hands to withstand the tender theft, to fight the relinquishing deemed necessary, and then Stewart was there—holding Anthony back by both arms, hands still clutching for his son, utterly silent until she and Clarkson were out of sight, and then he collapsed, crumbled into his valet's arms wishing Death would remember…and come back for him, too…


	2. Chapter 1

Yorkshire came. Lady Jervas, the Callender-Becketts, the Lowthorpes, the Crawleys, the Kents, the Bristols from London—all of them. They paid their respects, shook hands, offered the appropriate words of comfort, and left him again.

Anthony's sister, Sarah Chetwood, stayed for some time after, the friendship between the siblings as strong as ever. Jacob, Sarah's husband, and their son, Mark, returned to their home the morning following the funeral. Jacob's work and Mark's university studies beckoned and both knew that Anthony would be better off with only his sister present.

Sarah, like Anthony in many ways, stood nearly as tall as he, with fair features and paler blue eyes, but the dark blonde of her hair matched his and, without the age and slight height differences, the two might have been twins. Older, now with the handsome maturity that echoed the graces few managed in aging, Sarah's manner and gestures extolled the virtues of patience with her grieving brother: sitting in silence together in the Locksley library, each with or without a book, the fires constant in the hearth; the two took long, mostly silent walks despite the cold; she urged him to eat, much like a charmingly fierce Italian mother would, anxious about his physical health even as his heart scarred. He'd have none of it, of course. Before their eyes, Anthony began wasting away. He tried. He didn't talk or complain, not to anyone but Sarah, and even then it wasn't his few words, but the emptiness that dwelled: the feigned look of getting on as he retained his daily routine of rising early and showering and shaving…as though there was something to do; the sagging posture at his desk, unseeing focus in his gaze, an outward attempt to prove that nothing was wrong, a pretense of strength to conceal the pain. His older sister knew him too well, and she waited…

Four days after the funeral, the staff discovered what Sarah silently predicted and they all saw the depth of grief when Anthony failed to arrive or ring for Stewart and the morning hour became late.

"Stewart," Sarah said, brushing his sleeve as he headed for the door. "The cemetery. I think that's where he's gone. I'll come with you—"

"No, that's not necessary; the weather's quite poor. I'll check there first and return."

Stewart knew to trust her in this and he grabbed his coat and opened the door to go searching; within moments of turning onto the Locksley chapel path, he spotted him. Anthony stood on the far reaches of the vast estate, hat in hands and head bowed, the fresh dirt mounds in front of him wet from the near-frozen rain still falling. The tendency to want to still be close to them made sense; however, when Stewart hurried across the grounds and reached him, stopped just short of the family cemetery boundary of stone, he saw Anthony's clothes and coat soaked through by the weather and the knees of his trousers caked with mud as though he'd been kneeling at some point; the man was shivering in the cold, his lips moving with no words coming out.

"Sir?" Stewart moved towards him, fearing he'd surely taken ill.

Anthony didn't look up, didn't notice anything until Stewart touched his arm and looked directly into his eyes—and even then, Stewart could see the disorientation, the utter disconnect from reality.

Stewart did not wait for coherence or a more lucid state, but instead firmly took Anthony's arm and gave him no choice—gently leading him back home.

Later, after a warm shower and change of clothes, a cup of hot tea, Anthony apologized profusely to Stewart and his staff, and of course his adoring sister, for his behavior in causing them to worry. He yielded to Sarah's insistence that he rest upstairs. None of them blamed him, though. No one said a negative word about it. Stewart only walked with him up to the bedroom, a hand there to steady him should he need it, and returned minutes later to see about Mrs. Chetwood.

Sarah stood in the library by Anthony's desk, looking much like her brother as she stared into the gloom of the morning clouds.

"Is there anything you need?"

She turned towards the sound of his voice and smiled. "No, thank you, Stewart. Just worried for him is all."

Stewart hesitated.

Sensing his presence still near, she turned and faced him. "What is it?" Sarah asked.

"It's just—you don't seem surprised by the fact that he was out by the cemetery this morning."

Sarah gave the valet a sad smile, a poignant expression shadowed from the past. "It happened when our mother passed, too… I found him there by himself praying at her grave. Only once, but I know how he loves and it only made sense that he might be there again, by his wife and son." The strength she'd possessed in the past days gave way to the tiniest of cracks then as she choked out the final words and turned back towards the window.

Stewart nodded as a silent understanding passed between them.

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><p>Sarah observed him, his eyes made darker by the lamps now dimmed for the evening and the boyish lock of hair fallen across his brow as he sat pensive and quiet. She reached for his hand.<p>

"My darling brother, you're going to be fine."

"I know."

"Even though I know it doesn't seem so now. There is life ahead of you, Anthony. I know it—and you must believe it in order to go on."

"I know." His words were meant to assuage, but his clipped and hollow timbre broke her heart.

"Jacob wrote and needs me home, but I'll stay here if you wish."

"No, no. You should go home."

"Are you certain?"

"You want more of my wretched and miserable company?" He squeezed her hand, a crooked grin on his face. "No, no—you should be home…with your family."

"Are you sure? Won't hurt him at all to have to manage without me for a while—make him all the more grateful, I think, for my contributions." She smiled and Anthony smiled, both seeing the attempt at lighthearted humor, but the pure look of anguish that settled on her brother's face caused instant regret over the words, the meaning of his own loss. "Darling, I'm sorry—you know I wouldn't hurt you—"

"It's all right. It is. It's fine. I just need to…" The ideas, however, the priorities of what needed to be done eluded him.

"You need to purchase something for the farms and become the passionate, modern man I know you to be. Those plans there—" She tilted her head towards his desk. "They won't wait—they can't. Maud was so proud of what you were doing and she would want you to continue doing it. Utterly amazing what you have going. Anthony, Locksley is the talk of Yorkshire and the surrounding areas, in terms of the future and what you're accomplishing in agriculture. You can't stop now; let this time be one of focus for you, to help ease this terrible loss. Do your very best, as you always do, because one never knows what may happen…"

Anthony studied his charming and intelligent sister, smiled, and kissed her hand. "Thank you…for everything, my dearest Sarah… Perhaps my first order is to write to Jacob and let him know how precious you are, that he should treasure every moment with you?"

Sarah smiled, blushed and patted Anthony's hand. "He knows. Jacob treats me like a princess, but yes, a reminder wouldn't hurt. I'm lucky to have married such a wonderful man."

"He's the lucky one, as am I to have you as a sister. But you must go home—tomorrow, I insist. I'll be fine."

"I know you will. You've a wonderful staff here—and I'm only a short train ride away. Promise you'll write, particularly if you need me?"

Anthony nodded, dutiful and appreciative. "Of course."

Sarah, after nearly a month, finally returned home, though she left fearful of her younger brother's vulnerable state as he tried to get on alone. Stewart assured her he would do his best to make certain Anthony was not alone. The promise touched her so deeply she cried and hugged the valet, whose own tears were blinked away in the midst of the embrace.

Within two days of Sarah's departure, however, Anthony began to withdraw again. Stewart and Mrs. Brandon shared their concerns with one another in a whispered strategy session, agreed upon their approach to intervene. Anthony initially refused dinner, so Stewart took the tray to the library. The lone lamp at the desk, the absent stare through the nearest darkened window pane, and the only sound that of the dying fire's crackle.

Stewart defied his station, pulled a chair over, and sat down next to Anthony. Mrs. Brandon kept her distance near the hall entry. "Sir? You have to eat." He reached for Anthony's arm.

"I know…" Anthony offered his valet a weak smile. "A part of me knows I must, but I'm afraid I see no point to it all—getting on with things."

Stewart considered his words, a breath before beginning. "Sir, I mean only to tell you that we need you—Locksley needs you, Sir."

"I've no heir to pass it on to…not that I care as much about that—I want her back. She's my life…The losses before were devastating, but at least…we endured them together, as one."

"I know, Sir, but you can't possibly know what's ahead."

Anthony's lips parted, a frown interrupted. "You can say that because you've no idea what it took for me to gain the courage to court her…how lucky I was that she tolerated me."

Stewart shook his head. "I know better, Sir. I only ask that," he gestured to the plate, "you give yourself a chance to grieve and then honor her memory by living."

"Honor her—yes, of course, you're right. Honor her always. Sarah said as much, too. It seems the two of you are conspiring against me." Anthony hesitated, glanced once more at Stewart before looking to the plate and grasping the knife and fork in front of him. "As far as a life beyond, I'm already old. No, the best I can do is keep up the property and…live out my years."

"Sir, I think you'll find there's quite a bit of life left for you, so don't go resigning yourself just yet…"

Every ounce of energy in the next months Anthony dedicated to the season's preparation, the purchasing of new equipment, the redrawing of contracts with tenants, and the modernization of the Strallan estate as it welcomed the technology of the twentieth century.

On multiple occasions, Anthony declined dinner invitations from Lady Jervas and Lady Statham. Stewart would deliver the posts and Anthony would see the invitations and frown. "They're attempting to force me to socialize—with women, I'd imagine—and I've no desire to…be in that position."

Stewart would nod and remain quiet.

Anthony, feeling the anxiety and needing to rationalize, would add, "I know the ladies, Stewart, and they're very nice, but…it would be a disservice to them given that I'm just not ready."

"Lady Jervas only wishes to help you—"

"Marry. Let's just be direct—she means well and she cares very much, but I'm not ready and I can't just put on that façade right now, that false front of congenial behavior when my life is so dismal. I'll send my regrets again."

"As you wish, Sir."

By the spring of 1913, Lady Jervas, frustrated at the rejections received from Anthony, appeared at the front door of Locksley unannounced.

"Anthony," she said, sipping her tea on the couch in the library. "I was Maud's closest friend. You can't continue to do this, darling."

"Lady Jervas—"

The older woman, imposing in her own right given her stature, cleared her throat, a sign of indignation and aggravation at his use of her title. They'd been friends for more than two decades, since she'd married and become a society figure in the York area, and his distancing with such formality annoyed her.

"Catherine—I can do this. For a while longer, at least."

"She loved you and you loved her, but you shouldn't live the rest of your life alone—you're far too sweet a man not to have someone to spoil, to dote upon. Please—dinner? Just us: you, me, and Alistair? I won't invite anyone—this time. We'll sort of help you just get your feet wet again before introducing you to anyone."

"There's no one. They're already married or spoken for or too young or too far out of my league...and none would be interested in an old fool such as me anyhow."

She smiled, her dark eyes full of mirth. "My dear man, Anthony Strallan…you've absolutely no idea, do you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You're a seasoned prince, not an old one, and no one—no woman is out of your league. Brilliant, warm, sharp, and funny—"

"To a select few, it seems—"

"Oh dear. I'm not going to waste my breath on inflating your sense of esteem. I will merely say that I fervently hope that you say yes one of these days…"

He did, eventually, say yes, in August of 1913. Worn down by her persistence and his own sister's letters encouraging him, Anthony attended dinner. Catherine gave him warning that others were invited and he politely acknowledged that was quite all right, that he would enjoy visiting with Alistair and the other gentlemen. But when he returned home that evening, Anthony did nothing to hide his disappointment and frustration as he removed his coat.

"Two women, Stewart—two young, pretty ladies and not a small amount of pity thrown my way and, what I construed as false adulation, for they apparently knew all about me or pretended to know—though not from Catherine's lips, it seems. An old fool, I am."

"So, it didn't go well, Sir?"

"No, it most definitely did not go well. I was never good at this part, the idle chatting and attempts to placate or offer nonchalant topics of conversation. I don't want to endure that sort of evening again—_ever_. I'm clearly not ready. It's been nearly eighteen months. Tongue-tied or abrupt or stupid, an utter failure at even the most polite, vague discussion—yes, a failure—that sums up my behavior for the entirety of the evening."

Stewart only nodded, hung the coat, and took Anthony's tie. "Perhaps a bit more time then, Sir."

"Or never."

"Never?"

"I embarrassed Catherine and Alistair, I'm certain; I'll send apologies tomorrow, and I've no wish to put anyone else in that position again. I'm meant to be alone now. I loved my wife and she's gone and…there's no one…I'm perfectly fine like this."

Stewart knew better. "Perhaps a bit more time, Sir…"

Through the winter and the dawning of spring in 1914, Anthony busied himself again with work and London trips on government business. Being away in London or in Austria, too, for a short trip, renewed his love of music and travel, but when he returned home to Locksley, to the quiet still-life that had become his home he was reminded of how much he loved companionship…how much he'd loved being married…

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><p>*Robert and Cora considered their daughter's position, with Robert voicing the concern over the rumor regarding Mary's character being wanton, a certain loss of virtue being described in certain circles of Society.<p>

Cora sat on the bench beneath the sweeping limbs, admired the surrounding greens of the Downton estate. "She ought to be married. When I was her age, I was a mother. Talk to her."

"She never listens to me. If she did, she'd marry Matthew."

Cora ticked through the potential suitors, settling on a neighbor. "What about Anthony Strallan?"

"What about him?"

"Well, Maud's been dead for two years so he must be over it by now. And he has to marry again."

"Why?"

"He's got no children. He needs an heir."

"How alluring you make him sound," Robert huffed.

"Well?"

Robert would have laughed at his wife's utter lack of sense in the matter, her sight on propriety and requirement rather than the traits Mary desired in a partner. "Anthony Strallan is at least my age and as dull as paint. I doubt she'd want to sit next to him at dinner, let alone marry him."

"She has to marry someone, Robert. And if this is what's being said in London, she has to marry soon."

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><p>"Sir?"<p>

"Yes, Stewart," Anthony said, looking up from the ledger at his desk. "What is it?"

"A post for you, Sir."

Anthony took the envelope, opened it, and, as he read, appeared puzzled.

"Everything all right?"

Anthony frowned. "Yes, I suppose. I'm just a bit surprised—it's from Lord Grantham. A dinner invitation next week to Downton…"

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><p>*The Robert and Cora dialogue is taken directly from the Script Book for Season 1, most of which was used on the show. I've included the scene in its entirety rather than the show's edited version.<p> 


	3. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! My apologies for the wait on this one; I hope to have the upcoming chapter up much sooner this time around. I certainly, as always, hope you enjoy this chapter and the soon-to-be budding romance. __As readers know, I have an impetus to flash back and fill in holes where canon left them, so I hope to paint the romance a bit more in this story with some scenes I know-as an audience member-I would've liked to have seen played out on the show. _

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><p>In the spring of 1914, Anthony walked the fields of Locksley observing the surrounding green, the beginnings of flowers, and the budding of the season so full of promise that he couldn't help but feel optimism and then dread.<p>

"It's just a dinner," he whispered. Towards the end of his daily constitutions he found himself, nearly always, at their grave sites. Anthony bowed his head, closed his eyes to the sinking afternoon sun. "I wish…" _No matter_, he scolded. "I'll make the best of it, darling." As he turned away, Anthony glanced once more at Philip Ryan Strallan's stone, felt the prick of moisture at his eyes, and walked slowly away.

Stewart adjusted the white tie. Just enough. Anthony frowned.

The past weeks had become a whirlwind of dinners. Now that he'd opened himself up to the social circles again following the acceptance of Lady Catherine Jervas's invitation, Sir Anthony Strallan found himself pursued—a man sought for his position and his need for an heir. Young and middle-aged, slender and not-so, dark and blonde, and every type of female in-between, and he was their target. Most invitations he declined, knowing quite well the atmosphere he'd be entering: social, aristocratic, well-mannered piranhas at a feeding. Could there be a more dangerous crowd for a heartbroken man still caught up in grief? Here he was weak, wealthy, older, and—to most on the outside—merely in need of an heir. What he wanted most in his class couldn't fathom, at least not at first, due to their class' condition of heir blindness. Anthony needed more. A partner. A companion. A lover. And he wouldn't settle. Sarah understood these things; Sarah knew him well. And he'd said yes to this invitation out of respect for the hierarchy and his lovely sister's insistence that this Downton invitation was different.

"_He has three daughters, dear brother, and he's invited you for a reason, I'm certain." _

The frown turned to a half-smile and Anthony shook his head, touched the tie out of habit.

"To your satisfaction, Sir?"

"Yes, Stewart, it's fine."

Anthony's eyes drifted though, down and further until he forced his chin to lift.

"This is an honor to attend the dinner; I should be pleased by the invitation," Anthony asserted. "Sarah knew about it and insisted I attend."

Stewart didn't respond, only waited, his gaze on Anthony's jacket. Walking behind the gentleman, he looked for any sort of imperfection.

"Contacted her. Some detail about the dinner, she said. Sarah got the impression—as do I—that they wish for me to…be attentive to their eldest daughter, Lady Mary, who is apparently looking to wed quite soon." Anthony frowned more deeply. "I haven't seen any of them in quite some time and Lady Mary is, at least as I recall…"

In the ensuing silence Stewart quirked a brow, the seconds passing as both men paused, Stewart patiently awaiting his master's tactful evaluation of the Crawley debutante. A half-smile began to break out on his face at Anthony's stutter and failed attempt; the baronet too impossibly polite to actually _voice _a negative word about the earl's daughter.

Anthony gulped. "I'm sure it'll be fine—just for this evening."

"I'll ready the car, Sir. We should be going."

"Yes, thank you, Stewart."

A short drive and Anthony found himself greeting Carson at the door, followed immediately by Cora and Robert, and then a rather reserved, near stone-faced Mary. Lady Edith and Lady Sybil paid their requisite respects with polite smiles and, soon enough, after exchanges with the other guests, Anthony found himself between Lady Grantham and Lady Mary at the dinner table.

The conversations. Cora smiling, her voice gentle in his ear as he listened, hyperaware of Mary on his other side. Stunning, with her perfect skin and dark hair and eyes, she was nearly too much for a man to see in full—if she'd ever actually pay him more mind than a simple second-hand notice. Manners called for his attention to her, yet she remained chill, even dour at his attempts to begin conversation. Yet, he tried. In vain. This was matching Catherine's party in its intensity of discomfort.

No topic mattered. No interest piqued from her at all as she stared straight ahead, seemingly for fear her neck might tweak at the effort of glancing in his direction. The entire exercise was proving to be an utter waste of time and energy—a test of sorts for Anthony's infinite patience and perfected manners. Perhaps Cora anticipated these qualities as being of utmost importance in courting her prize daughter, hence her request for Anthony's presence tonight?

Anthony tried again, his confidence waning with each syllable, but managing the practiced façade of poise.

"Hmmm, there's no doubt about it. The next few years in farming are going to be about mechanization. That's the test and we're going to have to meet it." Then, turning to her in a more direct attempt to curry her favor and attentions, he spoke, "Don't you agree, Lady Mary?"

The dark, ever-arched brow replied, "Yes, of course, Sir Anthony. I'm sure I do."

Anthony knew the appeasing tone, but he smiled in return—even as she turned, yet again, away from him. Futility.

And then, before Cora could attempt to warm her daughter's pervasive chill, he heard his name.

"Sir Anthony, it must be so hard to meet the challenge of the future, and yet be fair to your employees."

Anthony didn't see nor care about the breach of dinner etiquette: a melodic line amidst the cacophony of surrounding murmur of guests. "This is the point, precisely. We can't fight progress, but we _must _find ways to soften the blow."

"I should love to see one of the new harvesters, if you would ever let me. We don't have one here," Edith's tone came across as apologetic and embarrassed, her own vision of the future clearly different from that of her family's.

"I should be delighted," he said, the boyish enthusiasm and pride apparent, his smile reflecting hers in the moment, a sheer and tangible thread of connection. _Did she blush? A perfect rush of color…_

The tug of attention from Lady Grantham brought him back to his more immediate circumstance as the pudding was served. Anthony waited for Cora, and then tucked into his pudding, eager for the distraction again of consuming the delicious dessert. Before he could think and preserve his manners, he nearly gagged on the tiny clumps of salt that clung to his tongue.

Anthony snatched up his napkin and coughed. "Good God!"

Cora stared, her mouth agape.

Robert frowned. "What on earth?"

"I do apologise, Lady Grantham. But I had a mouthful of salt." Anthony wiped his mouth, still recovering and reaching for his glass to wash away the ghastly taste.

He heard Cora command all of the other guests to not touch the final dish of the evening, felt his eyes water a bit.

"You must think us very disorganized," Edith offered.

Anthony's neck warmed, the embarrassment of it all setting in. A brief echo of laughter suddenly muffled, but he didn't look to his right, only to the young lady across from him—eager to assure her all was fine and get on with it. "Not at all. These things happen."

As the group rose from the table to disperse a short while later, fruits and cheeses having pleased everyone's palette in place of the pudding, Anthony felt the clutch of a hand at his elbow.

"Lady Edith?" His inflection and breaking voice betraying his surprise at her touch.

"I wanted to apologize, Sir Anthony."

"Whatever for?"

Edith flushed, her eyes widening as she stared up at him. "My dreadful manners during dinner—I've already apologized to Sir Perry Hammond for speaking over and, now, I'm sorry to have—"

"No, not at all," Anthony assured her. He smiled, both of them at ease. "I can appreciate etiquette, Lady Edith; however, those sorts of rules don't concern me when there's a wonderful exchange of ideas and insights. You're enthusiasm was…charming and unexpected, I must say."

"Anthony?" Robert waited by the door, the others moving slower so as to allow the baronet to join them.

"So sorry, Robert. Please excuse me, Lady Edith. I've kept them waiting." Anthony gave a slight bow of his head as he stepped away from her.

"My fault—my apologies again."

The gentlemen disappeared; Anthony followed Robert, still making light of the terrible error by the cook, Mrs. Patmore. Politics and talk and brandy. Anthony participated freely in the conversation, his government position allowing him to inform the others of some of the recent developments on the Continent.

"I'm leaving for Austria soon, if the escalation continues…"

The chiming clock. The rejoining of the ladies. Anthony welcomed the final portion of the evening. Walking behind Robert, carrying on with Lord Sheffield, Anthony entered the parlor and his eyes couldn't help but be drawn immediately to the mesmerizing beauty of Mary, now eager, with those dark eyes fixed in anticipation…on him.

Interested in him? Surely not. She'd avoided him for the entirety of the evening. But now…

"I've been waiting for you. I've found a book on the table over here and I think it's just the thing to catch your interest."

Entranced, Anthony took the book she presented; he focused on the pages, measuring the contents. "You're so right, Lady Mary. How clever you are. This is exactly what we have to be aware of." The font and illustration captured his attention; her perfume and proximity noticed, but his curiosity piqued instead by the information. Then, while he held the book, she disappeared for a long minute.

Anthony waited for her, perusing the pages until she returned. He was keenly aware of the time, of her fickle attentions and downward spiraling mood in the wake of Matthew's departure, waited a few more minutes before bidding all a good night. All of the Crawley women fawned, save Mary, and Anthony promised to visit again soon as they all insisted he should.

Once out in the cooler evening air, Anthony breathed deeply, allowed Stewart to open the door to the car and, as soon as he settled inside, rested his head on the back of the seat.

"A good evening, Sir?"

Anthony's long exhalation answered the smiling valet as the car lurched forward. "So many young women and… Stewart, women perplex me. They always have. One moment to appear interested and engaged, but the next remote and stiff… utterly aloof. No warmth or something deeper than just the generic show of required politeness that has—and will always—bother me."

"I'm sorry it wasn't a more pleasant evening, Sir."

"They never will be. I mean, it wasn't as horrible as Catherine's, but…" Anthony lifted his head and stared into the darkness with his shadow and white tie reflected in the car's glass. "The pudding. My God…"

Regaling Stewart with the evening's events took the few minutes' drive back to Locksley. A dim light greeted them in the entryway; a reminder of Mrs. Brandon's affectionate, maternal presence.

"Lady Edith sounds kind."

The two men walked to the library, nerves too wound from the evening to be tired. Stewart poured the brandies as Anthony sat at his desk, took up a pen, and opened his journal.

"Oh yes, of course, she was the very opposite of Lady Mary in the brief interactions—warm and…" Anthony's voice softened. "Kind. Quite concerned and…interested in the changing times…"

Stewart set Anthony's glass down by where the gentleman now wrote. "She sounds very nice."

Anthony though was deeply engaged in his writing by that point and only affirmed with an absent, "M-hmm." When he'd finished the sentence, he looked up to Stewart now perusing the titles in the library. "You're free to go, Stewart. I know it's quite late; I'll be up for a short while."

"You're certain, Sir? I can wait."

"No, no. It's fine. I'm perfectly capable of seeing myself to bed. Thank you."

"Good night, then, Sir."

"Good night."

Stewart turned to close the door behind him and watched Anthony for another moment: writing, his face lit by the lamp, his features downcast as he directed his attention first to the journal and then, for a long moment, to the photograph. With a gentle touch, Anthony straightened the already-perfect frame, smiled, and his concentration returned to the task at hand, of recounting the dinner, the talk, the prediction of the nothingness that would come from it…

* * *

><p>The telegram the following day was to the point:<p>

_Departure scheduled. London tomorrow morning. Leaving immediately. Extended trip. Austria. _

Anthony read the telegram again. "Stewart?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Pack tonight. I'm leaving in the morning first thing."

"Shall I accompany you, Sir?"

"Yes, plan on an extended stay; there's a stalemate at the moment. No telling how long it shall last."

For more than two weeks Anthony remained in Austria and on the continent. Involved in the most secret of negotiations and more casual government goings-on within the region, Anthony worked feverishly—as did the other ambassadors in his assigned entourage—trying to reason with an unreasonable leader: Kaiser Bill.

The few social occasions embarked upon by the group-dinners and the two concerts-sparked Anthony's longing once more for Maud, for marriage. He tried, beyond reasonable measure on both evenings in the darkened concert hall, to picture Mary at his side at this type of outing: leaning closer to him at the concert to view the program or whisper an opinion or relish other intimacies couples enjoyed-looks, the touch of a gloved hand...all of it to no avail. Impossible, even in the extreme of his most vivid imagination, to see her and feel her beside him actually enjoying herself in his company.

On the final evening, Stewart met Anthony in his chambers, after the formal dinner in the Kaiser's palace. "Everything all right, Sir?"

"No, Stewart. I fear we're sitting on a powder-keg in the form of a leader's ego and imperial nature. Everyone's tied together; a strong, but quite-flawed web. One misstep and England will find herself attached to a war we've tried diligently to prevent, yet have failed to see on the horizon. Utter denial at what's at stake. It's disastrous; the others can't seem to see how we're intricately weaving ourselves into it, how it could be avoided altogether."

"You're the lone dissenter, Sir?"

"No, not really, but the only one willing to speak freely. The rest have convinced themselves—in our perfectly English manner—that no war is to be had or fought, that it won't possibly come to that."

"And you?"

"I fear we're fooling ourselves to think it will stop before it comes to that…and, given the weapon advances, the technical advances in maneuvers and ways of _killing_…." Anthony took a deep breath. "I pray I'm wrong. My God, Stewart, I pray I'm wrong."

Arriving back at Locksley, weary from the long trip, Anthony found a letter from Lady Grantham.

_Dear Sir Anthony,_

_Our sincere apologies for the less than perfect dinner. Lady Mary mentioned you again today. I sincerely hope we can host you again here at Downton. You're welcome any time and I pray you're well and that we see you soon._

Anthony eyed the note somewhat suspiciously—well, not the note, but the fact of Lady Mary paying him any mind whatever.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Stewart?"

"The Rolls Royce contact, Sir—he called this morning. They will deliver it this afternoon."

"Very good. Thank you."

"Were you needing me to post a reply to Downton, Sir? To Lady Grantham's note?"

Anthony glanced back to the note. "No, thank you, Stewart. Perhaps one more attempt, if only to confirm my initial feelings. I doubt Lady Mary's feelings have changed in my absence. We'll see how the Rolls drives and I'll call on the Crawley family. Perhaps Lady Mary will be up for a drive in it? Automobiles are the future, after all…"


	4. Chapter 3

The young mechanic wiped his brow with his cap and gave a nod to the slightly older and well-suited gentleman, Doyle, the Rolls-Royce representative from York.

"That should do then, Sir. We'll be here should you need anything, but it's quite reliable."

Anthony shook hands with both of them, his eyes still on the vehicle before him. Then, running a hand along the door, the gentleman opened it and took his seat inside of it. "Yes, yes. It's very nice. Thank you."

"Good day, Sir," the two replied in unison.

After a few brief instructions and some test driving, Anthony Strallan drove his newly-purchased open Rolls Royce—all alone—down nearly every road in Yorkshire. Absolutely in love.

Stewart met him at the door of Locksley, removed his coat, and smiled. "Everything all right, Sir?"

"Yes, Stewart. The feel of it—the freedom. I love it." The baronet's wind-chapped cheeks magnified the brightness of his blue eyes. Anthony took a deep breath. "The machinery and gears, the smooth acceleration, Stewart, the technology of the future! What an achievement." Then, he frowned, a rather unexpected and unwelcome acknowledgement coming to mind. "The cost of petrol."

Stewart gave a grim nod. "Indeed."

Just as quickly, however, Anthony smiled once more. "And I don't care. I shall drive and enjoy it. We're already seeing the profits from the mechanization of the past year. We shall reap what we sow and continue on."

"Very good, Sir."

* * *

><p>Just more than a week later, Anthony could ignore the Crawleys no longer. He'd been home long enough to handle business and political correspondence, settle his solicitor's questions regarding a newly acquired property, and resolve other estate affairs, and he wished today to call on the eldest Crawley daughter. Dressed in his dark vest and tie, a favorite suit jacket and waistcoat, Anthony donned his hat and car coat, and drove to Downton.<p>

A ringing of the bell. Anthony removed his hat, smoothed his hair as Carson answered the door.

"Afternoon, Carson. Is Lady Mary here?"

"Good afternoon, Sir. Do come in. I believe she—"

Cora Crawley's voice carried before she came in view. "Carson? Who is—Sir Anthony—how nice of you to visit. Come in and sit down. Carson, please let Mary know Sir Anthony is here." Turning back to Anthony, Cora smiled. "She's asked about you during your time away; she'll be down shortly. Please, we can talk in here." She led the way into the drawing room.

"Yes, I've purchased a new motorcar and came by to see if she would like to go for a drive."

Cora beamed. "That sounds lovely. What type of car?"

"An open Rolls-Royce."

"Oh! The newest and best."

"Indeed—if one is going to invest in the newest, then it should be the best, in my opinion. So few quality products anymore and one must be studious and careful in—"

Before Anthony could sit down in the chair across from his hostess, he heard a young woman call and stood again, straight, ready to greet Lady Mary only to find that Lady Edith was there.

"Sir Anthony! Good afternoon!"

"Lady Edith—how lovely to see you."

Edith took a seat by her mother, smiling and expectant. "It's been some time."

Anthony relaxed in the chair, more at ease by the moment. "Yes, well, I've been away—part of a council seeing to the discord in Europe, trying in vain, it seems, to settle things before they…erupt."

"Sounds very interesting and important," Cora replied.

"Yes, I think more serious than some would like to admit. We were in Austria-Hungary most of the time…"

As the minutes passed, Anthony found the conversation easy as he hedged away from the confidences necessary to politely describe his travels. His focus came to the music, the chamber orchestras of Vienna, the people and politics, the food, the chocolate…

Edith, in particular, leaned in and asked questions about everything, so fervent in her interest that she barely allowed Anthony to take a breath and, he thought in a fleeting moment, he didn't mind that at all. When Mary finally appeared, Anthony's attention went immediately to the door and he stood. Edith sat—stung—as she eyed her sister, perfectly attired in her riding outfit.

*"Sir Anthony. How nice. We all thought we'd driven you away with that horrible salty pudding."

Anthony laughed, "No, indeed. But I have been away."

Edith explained further, pride in her voice, "He's been in Austria and Germany."

Dismissive, a tone her mother and sister recognized, Mary's thin smile and lips acknowledged, "How interesting."

"Interesting. And worrying." Anthony fought the impetus to clarify further, to sound the warning regarding just _how _worrying the vulnerable economic and political situation had become. Unwilling to offend or alarm his hostess, Anthony buried the thoughts and focused once again on decorum.

Cora knew the manner of distaste present in Mary's countenance and chose to segue, attempted to further the match-making process she'd initiated weeks prior. "Sir Anthony is here to show you his new car."

"I've rather taken to driving myself and I have to keep finding destinations to justify it."

Mary knew she should flatter, but she was unwilling to do more than ask, "What kind of car is it?" The production of the syllables seemed to tire her.

"It's an open Rolls-Royce. I wondered if you might like a spin in it."

"How kind. But, alas, not today. I've had Diamond saddled and he's waiting for me."

Cora's eyes widened in embarrassment as she sought to save the scene. "You could ride this afternoon."

Mary dug in her booted heels. "It's arranged now. But thank you, Sir Anthony. Do ask me again."

The words 'do ask me again' evaporated behind her, a dare to be taken later. Anthony thought,_Yes, to be rejected once more—no, thank you.__Duty done._

The three of them watched, then, as Mary left—a decisive turn and exit, utter silence despite the crackling intensity of polite-but-awkward-aristocratic airs. Anthony smiled politely at Cora, knew his requirements as potential suitor had been fulfilled and rebuffed in those few moments, and he readied to wait the requisite amount of time before departing and returning to Locksley to carry on his existence.

"I don't suppose you'd take me."

Anthony failed to hide the surprise as he glanced from Cora's tight expression to Edith's shy smile, and he knew he couldn't decline or excuse the lady's proposal. "Of course! I should be delighted." Though certain Cora's eyes flashed, Anthony paused only another moment before choosing to begin and end the exercise sooner rather than later. "Shall we, Lady Edith?"

"That would be very nice, thank you. I'll just get my coat."

"Yes, a good idea." Anthony rose as Edith did and observed what appeared to be the young woman's quickened pace in leaving to find her coat. Anthony turned back to Cora. "We shall return soon, Lady Grantham. I'll see her home safely. I'm certain rain will interfere and it wouldn't do to be caught in it."

Cora stood now. "You're right, of course. Thank you, Sir Anthony."

He bowed slightly. "You're very welcome. I'll see myself out and ready the car. Good afternoon."

Anthony stood by his car, waiting, touching the mirrors briefly, a minor examination of the parts that comprised the vehicle. He bent and then crouched down to the wheel and tugged at the rim, admired the precision of the cut of the frame, and pushed gently at the tire.

"I brought a hat, too, Sir Anthony," Edith said, arriving behind him, breathless from her hurry.

Anthony stood and turned to her, his breath momentarily gone from the surprise and the rose color of her cheeks in the afternoon air.

"Is this all right?" A nervous smile as her eyes flickered to the ground and then back up to his eyes.

"Y-yes. Yes, it's just fine. And you needn't call me by my title, Lady Edith. I insist you simply call me Anthony."

The color deepened, her curls fluttering in the breeze beneath her hat as Edith measured her words. "Edith, then, please. No title is necessary…being friends and all… "

"Of course. It's settled then. Just a short drive. Wouldn't want to keep you away for long." Anthony gestured to the passenger door, opened it for her, and took her gloved hand in his to help her inside.

Edith held his hand a bit too long and then smiled in apology. "I'm sorry." She thought of his words and replied. "No one will really notice…if I'm gone for a short while or a long time."

Unable to completely understand Edith's cryptic statement, Anthony merely smiled, bemused, and closed her door with a gentleness that left the young woman astonished, slightly open-mouthed as she watched him smile down at her and then stride around the back of the car and climb into the driver's side.

Anthony ignited the engine. Accelerating slowly so as not to startle his companion, the baronet steered the vehicle down the drive and out onto the roads of Yorkshire.

"I'd like to hear more about Austria," Edith said. "I've never really been anywhere near there, but I read quite a lot and try very hard to stay informed."

"What do you read?" Anthony's head turned to her, his focus still on the road.

"Everything," Edith answered, her passion obvious. "Newspapers, my father's books, the latest research in the periodicals—anything and everything I can get my hands on."

"Fantastic—I do as well. There's so much going on in the world; I'm either seeing to the farms or reading, as you say, anything and everything, or—"

"Solving diplomatic problems abroad."

Anthony laughed. "I wouldn't go that far." His smile disappeared. "I wish I could. I fear—"

The pause lasted too long as Anthony calculated how much, how little.

*"The Kaiser is such a mercurial figure, one minute the warlord, the next a lovelorn poet."

"But a poet in need of an empire."

Anthony chuckled, impressed with her wit. "That's very good. 'A poet in need of an empire.' My late wife used to say…" His eyes pricked with the memory. The dulcet sound of Maud in a happy moment: the two of them breakfasting, sharing the newspaper after one of his various trips to the continent…

"What did Lady Strallan say?"

Anthony dismissed the painful recollection, all too aware of his indiscretion of emotion. "Never mind."

"But I should like to hear it," she insisted.

"Really? Would you, really?" Certain of her affirmation, Anthony said, "She used to say Kaiser Bill loved uniforms and medals but he never really connected them with fighting."

"What was she like?"

"Maud? Oh, she was awfully funny. Some people couldn't see it, but she was…"

Anthony gripped the wheel a bit tighter, but just as quickly his hands relaxed. Lost in the past, the darkened part of his heart alive for a moment, he choked a bit and coughed to stifle the emotion. He took a chance and glimpsed Edith beside him—smiling. _Was she really?_

"Are you all right—enjoying the drive?"

"Very much," Edith gushed.

Anthony felt his neck warm at the collar, his cheeks not far behind. "I'm very glad."

"What was your favorite? You said you attended a concert?"

"Yes, it was wonderful. I believe a Rachmaninov concerto, a bit of Rossini, a Mozart concerto, as well. My favorite portion though was the piano sonata—the 'Moonlight' sonata…I don't care that it's probably so popular it's everyone's favorite, merely a cliché. It's gorgeous."

"It's haunting. I love it, too. The narrative, the way the instruments and moods gather always captivates me, too…"

"Yes. The depth conveyed in a simple change of tempo or a crescendo. The cello—I always wanted to play…"

The two talked of music then for nearly half-an-hour as the fields of Yorkshire passed alongside, before returning to books and politics.

"Austen, one of my favorites! How women should be: strong and funny."

Anthony saw surprise in her expression when he nodded. "Yes, I agree completely!"

"You do, really?"

"Yes, I do: strong, brilliant, funny. All of it. But the poets, Edith—the Romantics—always stay with me… Shakespeare, of course—"

"Need we mention him by name? Of course, including him goes without saying!"

"The Americans? Have you read any of the more recent—"

"Twain, though he's not new, is certainly a favorite. Quite sharp. I had the opportunity to see a lecture given by him—"

"Are we really close to the possibility of war?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so, but there's always hope. Europe is volatile. The very structures collapsing—"

Anthony, impressed with Edith's knowledge, listened and laughed, readily complimented her at each opportunity and took pleasure in the tender biting of her lip and always-present shimmer of blush in her features. _Could it be?_He wondered. Finally, nearing what both knew to be the end of the drive, a comfortable silence ensued. The trees waved as they drove, the sun waning just enough in the passing afternoon, and Anthony—somewhat reluctantly—made the turn back into the Downton drive. He parked the car, hesitated for a moment, and caught her gazing at him.

"I love your eyes—" Edith blushed, ducked her head, certain she'd broached propriety's staid line in the act of confessing her adoration.

With a gentle touch, he coaxed her, lifted her chin, and waited for her long lashes to reveal those dark eyes and meet his gaze. "I was just about to say," Anthony said, smiling easily, pardoning her in the instant and providing the necessary bridge back to propriety, "how very lovely your eyes are and that I have enjoyed your company this afternoon—very much. Very much, indeed, Edith."

In the simplest of gestures, Anthony took her gloved right hand in his left and kissed it. He felt certain the tiniest quiver of nervousness was there in her slender hand and he smiled at her again. Edith sat as Anthony opened his door and came around to her side; he opened her door for her and, once more, held his hand out. This time, he knew. Looking up at him, standing so close he caught the scent of lilac from her perfume, he felt Edith squeeze his hand ever-so-gently.

"Thank you again….Anthony. I, too, enjoyed the drive, though I apologize for inviting myself—"

"No, no—you should never apologize, my dear."

"Thank you then. It seems we have much to talk about."

"Yes," Anthony agreed. "Wonderful thing to find—one to share a delightful conversation with…"

Edith smiled, exhibiting that lovely flush of color again as she shielded her eyes slightly to look up at him before stepping away. "Good afternoon then."

"Good afternoon, Edith." Anthony watched her back away for three more steps before she turned towards the front door of Downton. Once she disappeared from view, he walked back around and climbed into his car, and, glimpsing again the massive structure—the castle in which she lived—he wondered. "Yes, a good afternoon…" he whispered.

As he drove back to Locksley, his mind mulling over the events of the day with Edith, he realized his front seat felt rather empty. _Foolish old man, she couldn't possibly… _

Anthony greeted Stewart and removed his coat.

"A good drive, Sir?"

"Yes, actually, but…"

Stewart waited patiently.

"Anyway, yes, it was a nice drive." Anthony moved quickly to his library with Stewart following behind.

"Sir, Lady Jervas's invitation arrived."

"Thank you, Stewart."

Anthony fanned through the posts, setting them all aside save Catherine's.

_My dear Anthony,_

_We've concert tickets for York—and we've enough for you to bring a guest—so I insist you do!__Plan on dinner afterwards…_

* * *

><p>AN: Thank you for continuing to read this little indulgence J Your reviews and support make my day!

*Denotes passages of _dialogue_ taken from the Season 1 script book. The descriptions have been interpreted/added.

I had the privilege, this past weekend, of visiting the United States' WWI Museum and Liberty Memorial in Kansas City, MO. I was very impressed with the exhibits and, though my son is still quite small, took the time to explain the significance of the poppy fields and the sphinx statues with their shielded eyes and interpret the photographs, films, etc. It's a wonderful tribute to the history and those who served, fought, and died during such a terrible time. I hope to include allusions to it in the upcoming chapters of my stories.

Next update should be on _The Present_…Thank you again for R/R


	5. Chapter 4

The invitation from the Callendar-Becketts forced Anthony to change his plans. Instead of a quiet evening in his library to consider the latest government work and the business meeting in York yet to come, he stood in his room donning his formal clothes.

"Stewart, please remind me again."

"It's been too long and you owe them—and—" The valet dutifully repeated for the fourth time that day the reasons why and then tilted his head just so for emphasis. "And you adore them, Sir."

Throughout the morning and early afternoon, Anthony had walked, met with his tenants, worked with his manager regarding the latest news and accounts. Anything to keep the evening at bay. Now, however, the departure loomed and he found no excuse but to be an honorable guest at his long-time friends' home. Only once had he seen them since Maud's death; moreover, the most recent invitation to dinner came with a rather insistent note from Judith demanding Anthony's presence or no further invitations would come and she'd begin spreading the worst of rumors as revenge. Of course, Anthony knew better and her tongue-in-cheek tone provoked a smile from the baronet; he'd courted her years ago only because her flirtations proved too obvious to ignore in social gatherings but he'd gladly bowed out when he saw her attraction upon introduction to his dear friend, Will. The evening would pass congenially with the best wine and captivating conversation, yet Anthony would arrive and leave alone—again—and again feel the emptiness…

Anthony secured his watch and chain as Stewart brushed the already-pristine jacket one final time. When the valet finished, he set the instrument aside and waited, staring at his master even as Anthony stared into the mirror—though clearly not at himself, but something distant he was thinking of.

_It seems we have much to talk about_…her smile and laugh and entirely too-modest wit, a shy charm that radiated…

"Is everything to your liking, Sir?"

Anthony snapped from the memory of Edith, of her wit, of the pleasure of her company, nodded and smoothed his lapel. "Yes…" The syllable came from still farther away until Anthony caught himself, looked at his valet in the reflection. "Lady Edith…well, I was just remembering the drive and…"

Stewart angled his gaze, patient. "Yes, Sir?"

"I was just thinking of Catherine's concert and—no, I shouldn't. Never mind." Anthony glanced once more and gave his collar a nervous touch. "Never mind."

With that, Anthony led the way out and Stewart hurried after him down the stairs, the gentleman now in purposeful stride to the door and out to his car.

"You're sure you prefer to drive on your own, Sir?"

"Yes, yes," Anthony assured him as he climbed in. "Good evening, Stewart."

"Yes, Sir—enjoy your evening."

* * *

><p>The winding roads of Yorkshire lay before him as he began the nearly thirty minute journey to Judith and William Callendar-Becketts' home. As he drove, the castle of Downton loomed just to his left up ahead of him and the sight of Edith's smile and blush and—<p>

His Rolls-Royce turned seemingly on its own and parked, looked up at the door. A sweep of excitement and energy surged; he took a breath, stared intently at the steering wheel, a sheepish pause subsiding before he opened his door and, as he approached the entrance, all Anthony could see was Edith.

Carson answered the door and greeted Sir Anthony Strallan with the same professional countenance as always, concealing what Anthony knew must be the closest the butler ever came to surprise in the slight angling of his brow.

"Good evening, Carson."

"Sir Anthony."

"I wonder if I might see Lord and Lady Grantham?"

"They're awaiting the dinner announcement, Sir. This way, please—Barrow?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson?" The slick-haired footman appeared out of nowhere with a thin-lipped smile playing as he eyed Anthony.

The gentleman noticed nothing, however; the only thought was how quickly he might see Edith, what her reaction might be: whether she would be pleased, but of course, she might simply flatter him, just an old gentleman to courteously entertain rather than…_no, not Edith, surely—_and his confidence returned with prevailing force.

"Show Sir Anthony to the sitting room."

"Yes, Mr. Carson. Follow me, please."

Anthony followed Barrow, watched as Carson disappeared to see to the dinner details. Barrow led him through the main corridor to the sitting room, opened the door with his gloved hand, and announced the unexpected visitor as the entire Crawley family rose to greet him.

*Cora smiled, gracious as ever. "Sir Anthony—?"

"Don't worry, Lady Grantham." He held up a hand, gave a slight-but-compunctious bow of his head for interrupting their evening—and a smile of reassurance. "I haven't got the date wrong."

Robert sighed and smiled in return. "What a relief. I could hear Cora wondering if the dinner would stretch."

There was no hint of stutter, only the proper, genuine smile of a long-time friend calling upon the earl's family, and Anthony Strallan knew exactly what he wanted and explained concisely: "No, I'm not really here at all. But I was driving past your gates on my way to the Callendar-Becketts, so I thought I'd take a chance. The thing is I've got two tickets for a concert in York, next Friday, and I was just wondering—"

Mary answered from behind Cora. "How nice. The only thing is, I—"

Without missing a beat, however, Anthony clarified: "No." He glanced at Robert and Cora, but then looked past them all to the middle Crawley daughter. "I was hoping Lady Edith might like to accompany me."

Edith appeared struck by the sound of her own name, immediately gathered herself, and looked up to see the tall, blond baronet watching her, and the entire family staring at her. Before she could think, she replied: "But I'd love to."

Robert smiled, patient and instructive towards his rather-too-eager middle daughter. "Shouldn't you ask what sort of concert it is?"

"Just Hungry Hundreds stuff, mostly, you know. Bellini, Rossini, Puccini. I'm not up to anything complicated," Anthony answered, glancing first to Edith and then back to Robert. His blue eyes fell again on her, so far across the room from him that he longed to be nearer.

The response came with a catch of her breath and the gorgeous blush of her cheeks that Anthony was already besotted by: "I'd like that very much."

"Excellent! It's quite a hike, so I'll pick you up at six. Lady Jervas has asked us for a bite to eat afterwards," Anthony continued, looking to Cora for appropriate permission. "If it's all right with your mother?"

"By all means." Cora couldn't contain the surprise and delight, a sparkle in her light green eyes as she gave her assent.

As quickly as he'd arrived, Anthony turned then and left, apologizing as he departed with a brief wave, "I must run. I hope I haven't spoiled your dinner."

* * *

><p>Back in the evening light and safety of his car, he paused before starting it. He inhaled deeply and chuckled at himself. "Good God, where did that come from?" He sat astonished at his own actions, his nerve in interrupting to ask for <em>her<em>—a lady's company for an evening: a bit of music and food and introducing her to his closest friends. Looking out the windscreen, the sun fading, he felt his cheeks ache for a moment before he realized why—he hadn't smiled like this in ages.

For the first time in Anthony's—or Judith and Will's—memory, Anthony Strallan arrived _on time—_nay late—and not early for the dinner.

"Anthony, you are never late."

The flushing gentleman glimpsed his surroundings. "I'm not…late."

"You're on time, Anthony Strallan, which is _late,_" the hostess said, giving him a wink. "After this long in not seeing you, why on earth are you not the first one here—?" Judith asked, a wide grin on her face.

He kissed her cheek in greeting and shook Will's hand as he stood beside her. "I made a stop on the way over—just a quick one."

"Might it have to do with a certain earl's daughter?" Judith's eyes narrowed on him, a sly smile there.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Anthony answered.

Catherine Jervas arrived then, wrapping her arm in Anthony's and smiling, cat-like, in Judith's direction: the two women conspiring to get the full answers, discreet in their mutual pounce, and out of the hearing of the other half-dozen guests already in attendance.

Catherine leaned into his arm, the smile disappearing as the two walked towards Catherine's husband, Alistair, on the other side of the drawing room. "Lady Mary?"

Anthony swallowed his inclination to laugh aloud and managed to simply shake his head, polite and subdued. "Actually, no. I inquired of Lady Edith her plans for the upcoming concert you've trapped me into attending—"

Catherine laughed, feigned hurt at the suggestion of trapping him, and then smiled again. "But, Anthony, dear, I thought you were interested in Lady Mary?" Catherine whispered.

"No, Catherine, I'm not sure what you've heard, but I was asked to dinner and suggested a drive one afternoon and was rather easily dismissed by Lady Mary—so Lady Edith and I bowled along the countryside together and…"

Catherine saw it then and Anthony, his voice and eyes so soft that the latter almost glistened as he looked at her. "Anthony—"

"I know," he said. "I didn't think it was possible, but—well, it's nothing, I'm sure—just a concert and dinner—" Anthony waved his hand to dismiss it and the potential of emotion already tapped.

"I'm sure it will be a lovely evening," Catherine patted his arm as if to confirm it and passed him off to Alistair in conversation, sauntering off to join the other ladies already sipping cocktails.

Alistair Jervas wore an expression of knowing mirth. "Evening, dear chap. I see Catherine's already sunk her claws in, so to speak."

"Yes, one could say that," Anthony replied.

"Fact-finding, yes?"

"Yes, though I'm afraid 'tis not as exciting as she'd hoped."

Alistair laughed, a hearty, deep boom. "Oh, given the gossip going 'round I'm sure it's all she'd hoped 'twould be." The slightly shorter man leaned closer to Anthony, sipped a bit of his amber-colored drink, and whispered, "Lady Edith, eh?"

Anthony nodded.

"Hmm," Alistair's mouth frowned as he made the sound, a contemplative look evident in his worn features. "But you get along?"

"Yes, though our time together was short; it seems, so far…easy to be with her."

The dinner bell rang just as Alistair's fuzzy gray brow inclined with curiosity and the men joined the other couples and ladies in walking through to eat.

Anthony found himself seated between two handsome women—one Lady Mansfield, a quiet and unassuming widow in her thirties and the other an alluring, quite-attractive daughter of a Cambridge friend working in India. He was certain Judith planned such a placement for his own social benefit, namely to introduce him to eligible ladies and get him married again; judging from her looks at him from the far end of the table, moreover, she was quite thrilled with his plans regarding Edith Crawley and she saw no need to intervene or encourage him with her other guests. Thankfully, Catherine, too, seemed pleased and found no reason to nudge him in either direction. Indeed, the evening's pleasant conversation around and between them kept the baronet occupied if not entertained, yet as the men separated and discussed politics and the latest concerns in Austria-Hungary his mind wandered again to Edith: her surprise, the anxious way in which her gloved hands fidgeted ever so slightly, the way she'd looked down initially—had she thought he was really there for something else, for _someone else—_for Mary? Well, if she had little faith in him now, at the beginning, then he should consider it his duty to let her know just how interested in her he was. Anthony Strallan decided then and there in Will's mahogany gilded parlor that he would hold nothing back in his pursuit of Lady Edith Crawley, that convincing her of his absolute adoration would be his primary objective—that their ride together was, despite their own expectations and others' perhaps, rather extraordinary, and he must find a way to convince her of just how incomparable it was…during their…time together should she enjoy the upcoming concert. The word echoed in his mind: _courting._Never did he think that he would welcome such an idea, but_—_yes, _courting. _

"Isn't that right, Anthony?" A firm grip on his shoulder from the Alistair startled him.

"Ye-yes. That is—" Glancing around the room he saw all of the gentleman leaning a bit forward in their chairs awaiting his usual, spot-on reply complete with illustrations and analysis no other could give due to Anthony's status within the government. Upon searching once more and finding himself bereft of what they were discussing, Anthony stuttered again.

Alistair gulped his brandy and chuckled. "Forgive him tonight, gentlemen—our dear chap has a lady on his mind—"

The others erupted in laughter and Anthony's sheepish grin and crimson cheeks only served to hearten them…

* * *

><p>The days crept.<p>

Edith fretted over which dress to wear, pantomimed in front of the mirror in idle moments, and had imaginary conversations with Sir Anthony Strallan and the potential companions for their evening.

The baronet exchanged informative letters with his sister, busied himself with work, and implored Stewart to attend to the readying of the car and every other detail seen and unseen.

Neither slept well, both turning to books to sustain them in the darkest hours of anticipation. Dreams. Fleeting visions of the could-bes…before the evening finally came and Anthony checked his coat once more, his tie, the tickets…

Stewart knew this was different and he wished Anthony a warm good luck.

And then Anthony was off, turning into the Downton drive at five 'til 6pm…

* * *

><p>AN: *denotes scene dialogue taken from the Downton Abbey Season 1 Script Book. Descriptions/narration have been added. All characters belong to Mr. Fellowes, of course.

Thank you for reading/reviewing.


	6. Chapter 5

Anthony checked the bouquet beside him, smoothed his tie and lapel once more. His mother's words rang in his mind: _flowers, manners, Anthony, you must always think of her first_… The collection of calla lilies and roses—Madame Alfred Carriere and Autumn Damask blooms—gave just the right amount of fragrance combined with the subtle significance: beauty, purity, sweetness, and, above all, faithfulness. Would she see it? Would she know?

The hints she'd given regarding her family left him believing she needed perhaps a show of confidence in her favor—and have it, she would. Anthony smiled as he held the perfect symbol to begin, stepped out of the Rolls Royce, and walked towards the looming door.

A brief ring of the bell and the baronet felt his heartbeat, nearly bursting through his shirt, and, yet, as the door opened he knew he'd never been more certain of a decision in his life. Edith and a beautiful evening and a concert, and Anthony Strallan could not contain the emphatic delight that now threatened to bring about the silliest of crooked grins.

"Evening, Carson," Anthony greeted the staid butler and regained his composure.

"Sir—this way, please."

Anthony followed Carson, the former occasionally lifting the bouquet to his nose and smiling. Waiting just inside the sitting room were Cora and Robert—and Edith stood by the window, apparently looking out over the estate and with a view to the long drive that led to the castle's front entrance. She'd been waiting…for him.

"Good evening, Anthony," Robert greeted him first, rising from his chair and approaching him immediately.

"Good evening, ladies—Lady Grantham."

"Sir Anthony, it's very nice to see you. What a beautiful arrangement," Cora said, tilting her head towards Edith and raising a brow at the flowers. "Such a lovely fragrance—" Anthony's gaze stayed on Edith until Robert came between them.

Robert clasped Anthony's free hand. "How are you?"

"Very well, thank—"

"The shoot this Saturday—"

"Oh yes, yes, I received the invitation," Anthony affirmed quickly, hurrying through the pleasantries, craning slightly to see her.

"You're coming, then?"

Anthony wanted to cease the question and answer routine and join her there by the window, take her hand, kiss it, and get on with the evening—just the two of them—but remained a perfect gentleman as Edith looked on, her breaths seemingly stilted as he glimpsed her waiting in her dark magenta gown and gloves, her hair curled, her eyes on him and, shy, angled downwards awaiting his attention.

"Yes, of course," Anthony answered. "Lady—"

"Excellent! We're all looking forward to it then and even—"

Cora cleared her throat and glanced to her husband and then to Edith. Robert chuckled.

"Do forgive me. You two have a concert to attend, yes?" He looked to Edith, who smiled.

Anthony heard the slightest huff from across the room, but didn't glance in Mary's direction; his eyes and attentions belonged to Lady Edith Crawley this evening.

"Lady Edith, shall we?"

"Yes, of course," she replied, and he stepped towards her, elegantly and easily with his long stride, and held the bouquet, which she graciously took, and her accompanying blush gave him a quiver that he felt down to his toes.

Though the entire family watched—Mary scoffing and the other Crawleys smiling somewhat awkwardly at a sight they never imagined—Anthony and Edith stood alone. She grasped the tightly bound bunch of flowers and bowed her head to take in the aroma. Neither moved for a moment. Edith's eyes flickered up to his: demure brown meeting incandescent blue.

"Thank you," she whispered just above the white blooms.

"You're very welcome, Lady Edith. We should go?"

Anthony gave her his arm and she slid her free hand in the crook of his arm, clutching the bouquet closer to her breast, the colors of the petals contrasting so sweetly with that of her still crimson cheeks. The two nodded to the others, said their good-nights, and walked out together—Anthony shortening his gait just enough so his petite companion could keep pace. Neither spoke the entire walk down the corridor and out to the Rolls Royce.

As before, Anthony opened the door and held the flowers and then her hand as she took her gown with the other, moved to sit inside the vehicle. Anthony smiled, returned the scented bunch to her, and took his place beside her in the driver's seat. Aware of the time passing, he started the car and drove again before chancing a look at her with a sideways glance.

"I love them," Edith said.

"Do you _appreciate_ flowers, Edith?"

By the moment that passed and, he hoped, by his tone, Edith could glean his meaning in the question. She appeared to study them and then, as Anthony looked again to her, he saw what seemed to be hope. "I do…appreciate them. The colors and…subtle meanings—"

"And some not very subtle at all," Anthony said, a meaningful smile paired with an apparent twinkling in his blue eyes.

Edith's lips crept into a slow smile as she remained silent for a minute and, in a rush of courage, slid a bit closer to the blond gentleman. Anthony kept his eyes on the road ahead, keenly aware of each movement of hers—a turn of her head, a fidget of her gloved hands, a bow of her head to smell the flowers. As the car drove on in the evening air, she shivered a bit—more from anticipation and nerves than any evidence of chill.

"I'll be certain to convert the top for the return drive home," Anthony assured her.

"I'm fine, really. It's a lovely evening."

Anthony couldn't stop smiling. The easy conversation ensued then. The distance to York passed quickly with each laugh or exchange of idea, and the sun extended its descent and brightened the colors that lit their drive. Anthony parked the Rolls Royce in front of the concert hall, cut the engine, and looked to Edith.

Self-conscious beneath his gaze, she blushed again, lifted the flowers to her nose. "What is it?"

Anthony didn't look away, but gently touched her cheek and caused her to turn to him, and then tilted her chin towards him and waited for her to lift her eyes to his. "You look very lovely this evening, Lady Edith. I simply couldn't help but admire you; I do apologize, however, if I've made you…"

"Thank you," she uttered in disbelief. "Thank you so much."

Watching her expression, Anthony knew she'd never heard such before in her young life. Perhaps during the season some young man or another might have offered compliments of an insincere nature or in a perfunctory manner as required rather than inspired, but this…her eyes wide now in astonishment and her smile so warm…the gentleman fought the urge to kiss her right then and there so strong was it in him to prove to her his genuine affections. He settled for taking her hand and kissing it tenderly, and whispered a bit distractedly, "We should go in—wouldn't want to be late, after all."

Anthony felt a surge of pride walking towards the ornate entrance of the York Symphony Hall with Edith's delicate hand at his elbow. He saw Catherine wave from across the foyer, but the announcement to begin precluded any immediate introductions and he only returned her gesture to both her and Alistair and smiled, presented their tickets to the usher and were led to their seats. Anthony nodded, graciously accepted the program offered from the young man as Edith watched the orchestra tuning in the Great Hall of the Exhibition, sheer delight in her features. She sat down in the appropriate row and Anthony took his seat beside her.

"Lady Edith?"

Edith smiled over at him as they listened to the cacophony of bent notes and echoes coming from the stage. "Thank you."

"Are you disappointed?"

"No, why would I be?"

"Not exactly the music I mentioned off-handedly the other evening at my invitation. I hope it's still satisfactory?"

"Of course. I think it will be absolutely lovely." She studied the program quite carefully, her eyes poring over the music selections.

Anthony waited for a moment, as the lights dimmed around them and the audience scurried to their seats, he whispered, "Of course if it doesn't meet expectations, I shall have to make it up to you—and bring you again." In the shadows that now blanketed the room moments before the performance, Anthony saw the absolute glow in her countenance and his heart quickened. "There," he said, pointing towards the performers, "is Dr. Bairstow and that is Miss Editha Knocker—they share conducting responsibilities—at least for now, as I hear she's rather unhappy at the moment and may resign soon."

Edith giggled at the conspiratorial tone he used, and he winked at her in such a playful manner that she laughed again before catching herself. Anthony apologized softly and their attention returned again to the beginnings of the concert.

Edith watched the performers' etiquette as the first violinist rose and presented the orchestra. She leaned into Anthony's shoulder. "This isn't as grand as the Austrian concerts, I presume?"

"No, not quite as grand, indeed; however, Lady Edith, this is one of the finest ensembles in the kingdom. I assure you I'm not disappointed when I come here—and certainly not tonight," he added.

As the opening chords of "The Bartered Bride" began, the zeal and tempo startling Edith nearly to the point of impetuous applause, Anthony kept his eyes on her as much as he did the assembly of amateur and professional musicians. The scent of her perfume fused with the roses and blooms from the bouquet, the heat inside the Hall intensifying the effects, forcing Anthony to concentrate and not lose himself completely in her rather than the music. The applause after the opening led straight into the arias by Mr. Campbell McInnes and his gorgeous baritone filled the space easily, his notes precise and only off on the slightest pitch, as far as Edith could tell, perhaps once or twice—the remainder of the performance magnificent in her estimation. The Beethoven Symphony No. 2 in D proved her favorite, Anthony could tell by the ways her eyes glistened short of the eleventh minute and then lit at the bold chords and powerful bursts of crescendo, but the Sibelius Romance and, following, the "Silent Noon" rendition by Mr. McInnes brought tear drops that threatened to spill at her delicate, dark lashes.

Anthony, discreet in his movements, removed his handkerchief and made as though he meant to simply lay his arm beside her and placed the silk in her gloved palm. Edith felt the pressure of his fingers in her palm and glanced to him, lips parted slightly and eyes flickering between joy and something Anthony couldn't quite name. She mouthed the words 'thank you' and dabbed at her eyes as she turned, leaving the besotted gentleman to observe her profile, the tears still escaping. Inexplicably, with one hand still dabbing, the other rested once more beside his hand and, tender, the back of his hand touching hers, Anthony's larger hand opened to reach for hers only to feel her fingers lay instantly in his—willing him to hold hers. Caressing, surrounding her small hand in his, the constriction in his own throat bringing a heat to the back of his eyes, Anthony smiled, looked down at his program so as to be inconspicuous, and then gazed straight ahead to the stage and the closing minutes of the concert.

In those final minutes, holding Edith's hand, years of memories wandered back to Anthony as he tried to conceal his emotions…Maud, his mother and Sarah, his father's words…

_Anthony, marry a lady who cries like your mother does at the opera—you may not understand it—but marry a woman who feels so deeply and passionately because I know, like me, you will have found someone touched by life and beauty and love…a woman who knows what makes a life worth living, one who will be able to make you happy._

Suddenly, the audience was standing and applauding enthusiastically, including Edith, who was on her feet immediately. Anthony stood, too, stunned somewhat by the elicited feelings that were now surfacing, and he clapped along with the crowd.

"Are you all right?" Edith asked, overwhelmed by the experience and the close of the concert, and still grasping his handkerchief.

"I'm very well, Lady Edith, and you?"

"I'm terribly happy, actually," she said, her voice lilting between a laugh and a cry as her smile brightened her eyes. "Terribly happy, thank you. Thank you so much…for this."

Filing out with the others in attendance, Edith began her excited twittering. Anthony didn't interrupt—not during the walk through the crowds to the car park and not during the drive to Catherine Jervas's. Edith noticed everything from the way in which the orchestra members turned the pages of music to the lighting throughout the hall during the performance to the twitch of the tympani player's nose even as he beat the large drums with precision. More than once he turned his head to catch a glimpse of her in the car, the drive considerably darker now with twilight and the top closed given the chill of the night air. When he did, he wasn't disappointed: hands animated and her eyes alight with pleasure and her voice, her laugh…

When they arrived at the Jervas Estate, Anthony held open Edith's door and the two simply held on. Catherine greeted Anthony at the door with a kiss on the cheek and, as he introduced Edith to the older woman, Catherine clasped Edith's hands and welcomed her.

"My dear, Lady Edith, we've heard so much about you!"

"Thank you," Edith said. "It's so nice to be here."

Catherine leaned close to Edith, then, her eyes on her long-time gentleman friend, and she whispered just loudly enough so Anthony could hear, "We haven't seen near enough of this wonderful man and it's thanks to you he even accepted my invitation."

Edith glanced to Anthony, a question. They reflected each other's shy, modest smiles as Catherine eyed Anthony and then Edith more closely.

"You two go ahead. The cocktails are coming around and dinner will be in just a short while, I'm sure, and Lady Edith, I know you're already acquainted with some of my guests but if there's anyone you wish to meet—let me know or Anthony, of course, as he knows them as well," she said softly, a hint of amazement at the edge of her tone as she continued to look from one to the other.

Anthony knew. Catherine, as she'd always done, saw it before anyone else. As Anthony moved towards the parlor where the other guests gathered, he glanced back at her and she smiled, raised her brow and smiled even more broadly: approval…happiness for him. He smiled in return and felt a rush of delight, yes, he was _delighted_, and he stared at the woman on his arm—still—she hadn't let go—and, for a moment saw ahead for them—

"Anthony, how are you? And who is this lovely young lady?" Alistair's deep voice boomed from the corner of the room as he approached and guided the couple towards his other guests, his eyes warm and inquisitive towards Edith.

Anthony introduced Lady Edith Crawley to Alistair Jervas and the other two gentlemen in his company, and one—Sir Jonathan Morse—alluded to the growing changes in the world, in economics, in industry—and Edith listened carefully as each man save Anthony countered with his knowledge, and then she wasted no time offering her well-informed opinion for the need for such change and the positive consequences of the upheaval. The men stared at Edith first and then Anthony, whose only reaction was to smile at her in awe, utterly unconcerned with anything other than the darling woman peering up at him.

"Edith! Edith!"

Edith turned towards the voice and back to Anthony. "I'm sorry—"

"Not at all, please—"

"All right, please excuse me."

"Of course," he said, and the other gentlemen chimed in with approving nods.

Edith glanced once more to Anthony. "I'll rejoin you later…Anthony."

Alistair stood beside Anthony as they watched her embrace an older woman in a purple frock. "Your first official evening out?"

"Yes…"

Alistair scrutinized his friend. "Anthony Strallan—"

"Wh-what?"

"I do believe it's possible…"

"What's possible? What do you mean?"

A second later, the butler announced dinner.

Catherine directed each of her guests, ten in all, to their seats and, arriving by Anthony's side, whispered, "You're very welcome."

Anthony didn't see Edith at first, waited for the ladies to take their seats first and then sat simultaneously with the other gentlemen in attendance. Edith touched his elbow. "Good evening."

"Good evening, my dear. Very nice to see you again so soon—and so close." He saw Catherine catch his eye and he—unnoticed by anyone else—thanked her for the placement and the evening with a sharp glance and an angled brow.

Wild mushroom pie and baked salmon in puff pastry and potatoes and greens and a rich crème caramel served and indulged in and the hour grew late with chatting, with laughter amongst his friends, and talk of the brilliant music—but a revival of energy at the mention of Freud and Burroughs and Conrad, the literary and social commentary on man himself—and woman, as Edith stated, and Anthony agreed straight away that indeed both genders and all classes were equally and significantly targets—and Proust and time and Joyce and youth and artistry, of life and death…and around again to the powder keg of Austria-Hungary.

The parties began to break up, but Anthony made sure he took Edith's hand and made eye contact. "I need to get you home. It's quite late."

"Mama gave no specific time. I think she trusts you implicitly…to take care of me."

Anthony could see Edith's determination to stay. The beautiful pleading in her eyes provoked his smile, which made her laugh. "All right. I did tell them it might be quite late given the dinner arrangements." He glanced over to see Catherine awaiting Edith's joining of the ladies and smiled at her and then down at Edith. "Enjoy your evening in there."

Edith saw Catherine's hopeful visage. "Thank you."

"Good luck," Anthony whispered, a mirthful grin at his lips.

Edith narrowed her eyes and smiled, an attempt at flirtation despite her lack of sophisticated practice with such gestures.

Anthony paused long enough to see Catherine welcome Edith into the ladies' fold and heard the beginning of what he was certain would be the friendliest of interrogations regarding her evening, her opinions, and her time with him. He chuckled to himself and realized there's nothing he wouldn't give in order to hear what she thought of him, of their evening together, of her desires given her youth…his own age occurred to him and he frowned at how quickly feelings can run amok despite facts.

"Anthony?" Alistair's forceful pat on the back brought him out of it.

"Yes—sorry. Lost in thought for a moment."

Alistair peered over to where the ladies had disappeared and saw that Anthony still looked in that direction—and he grinned. "And I've no doubt, dear friend, what those thoughts were lingering on."

Anthony nodded. "Yes…do you know she… Never mind. It's nothing."

"What is it?"

He measured his words, quietly said, "She was…very moved by the music. I think that's rare is all."

Alistair gave an affirmative nod and steered him towards the hall. "She's sharp, Anthony." The two men ambled down the corridor together towards the billiards room. "She more than held her own this evening and I've no doubt Catherine will report the same after you all have gone; I'm impressed, you know, given her lack of experience, but she seems quite mature even for her age—nineteen, you said?"

Anthony nodded as the door to the room opened and the smoky air of already-lit cigars greeted him. "Yes, she's so young still, but… All I keep thinking is how to show her my feelings are genuine, but I stop and wonder what on earth she could possibly see in me."

"Marriage. A future."

"Yes, but she could have that with any younger man—"

"Anthony, you forget how small-minded some young men can be in their pursuit of a partner: the superficial ways of courting, the demonstrations of propriety and manners rather than substance. It strikes me," Alistair began, one eye on the billiards game already in progress and one on the brandy being poured in his glass, "that this young lady is too smart for all that. Yes, she's young, but don't discount her or her interest. Be as you've always been."

Anthony took the offered brandy from Morse. He sipped it, his mind in contemplative quiet as he watched the others engage in chatting and the game at hand; his piercing blue eyes followed the game, but his thoughts stayed with her. Edith was young and, yet, there was an understanding in her that he'd found in few others—a kindred spirit of sorts, a meeting of similar souls—and, despite the nagging doubts, he knew he wanted more with her: a courtship, though he'd allow some time between their visits in the event her affections turned to another, but he would be faithful and true as he'd always been…as she must know if she'd read the arrangement he'd given to her, the bouquet she'd held all the way to the concert and once more on the drive over and only relinquished when he came around again to escort her inside…

The time passed quickly and Edith rejoined him after the parties mixed again. Instead of staying longer, Anthony politely made their excuses and the couple said their good nights. Anthony felt her hand linked in his arm again, and they made their way to his parked car.

As he began the drive back to Downton, the stars finally out and the moon peering from behind a feather-shadow cloud—and, to Anthony's delight, she immediately cradled the flowers to her breast.

"A good evening, Lady Edith?"

"Absolutely wonderful," Edith gushed.

"Would you like to, perhaps, accompany me again soon?" He felt her eyes on him, but didn't take his eyes from the road.

"I would love to."

The unexpected words, the lovely, melodic voice of hers floated to him in the darkness, as though he'd dreamt it. Anthony warmed through and it had nothing to do with the heat of the billiards room, the little brandy he'd indulged himself with, or the nerves brought on by being in the company of a lady he admired. Or the perceived closeness of her proximity to him—he was almost certain she'd moved closer to sit flush against him rather than by the door.

A comfortable silence settled after a lengthy summary by Edith of the ladies' chat and her impressions from the evening. Anthony listened intently, posed questions accordingly, offered colorful commentary where appropriate to fill in any gaps, and agreed with her in every instance respecting the others present at the dinner party. Feeling the effects of the dinner, the wine, and the excitement of the evening, Edith muffled a yawn as inconspicuously as possible as they turned into the long drive that led to the castle's front doors and Anthony smiled.

When he parked the car, he saw what he thought was a mixture of pleasure and dread in her features.

"Thank you for the lovely evening, Sir Anthony," she said, a sadness evident.

"Anthony—and thank you, Lady Edith."

"Edith…"

A long breath and Anthony touched her cheek. "Why are you sad?"

Fearful her response might be unladylike, she hesitated.

"It's all right. Was something said—tell me, please?" He held her chin, could see her faltering breaths. "Edith, tell me?"

"I just," she shrugged, "didn't want it to end is all…"

Relieved, Anthony smiled, "Neither did I, but…if it's all right with you, I'll call again for you?"

"Please do." Her fear and sadness seemed to evaporate at the notion of a second invitation with him.

Feeling the tension of desire and the impulse to press his lips to hers, Anthony broke it. Coming around to the other side, he held her hand and led her out and up to the front entrance. Only one light appeared to glow from the inside of the massive structure. Anthony didn't let go of her, but stepped to the door, kissed her hand, and, both staring at one another in the twilight, he leaned down to her, inhaled the intoxicating perfume and felt the sigh she let escape, her body going slack against his, her hands pressing his lapels for a moment, and he touched his lips—as tenderly as his heated pulse could manage—to the softness of her cheek. "Good night, Edith." The light whisper by her ear gave her a shiver and he smiled still, so close he could breathe in the scent of her hair. Standing straight again, he stepped back from her.

"Good night, Anthony," she whispered, drew in a breath of the flowers she held a final time to her, and opened the door to Downton. "Thank you so much—good night." Edith smiled again and gave a small wave and shut the door ever-so-slowly.

Anthony drove home to Locksley, found it dark as he'd insisted Stewart not wait up, and went immediately to his library study. The events of the evening ran through his mind again. He stared through the window into the blackness, and then at his lined face of reflection where the lamp cast his image in the pane. The stationery smoothed before him and he took his pen in hand…_ I fear in the coming weeks I will simply be an old fool in love, for she is so young—but when we're together we seem such an easy fit…I daresay…in the short time together that it is the perfection I've only seen written about by others and never felt…until now…_

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><p><em>AN: The program is taken from the York Symphony Orchestra's own website. I've used the March 16 order of music, as well as the names and real-life histories of those involved with the orchestra. The words from Anthony's father are from my other story, Portrait. As always, thank you for reading and reviewing-it truly is the lifeblood and inspiration of writing-and is very much appreciated!_


	7. Chapter 6

A/N: The first portion of this is inspired by a line in S1E6, I believe. Violet, in front of Cora, tells Edith: Sir Anthony was at Lady Wren's party. He asked after you. Edith flushes as she leaves the room…such a telling scene for both Anthony and Edith…

You all are fantastic(!) and I sincerely thank you for your reviews and thoughts and PMs regarding this story and its bookend, _The Present_. I'm so glad for your readership and enthusiasm given that it's a bit off the beaten path, so to speak, from canon. I hope you enjoy this latest bit. I've said before in working on my other stories that I have a certain affinity for flashbacks because of the holes a certain someone left in their courtship on the show. I'm trying to construct a lovely, believable courtship here and, hopefully, filling in and adding to those flashbacks I've hinted at in my other works. All of that said, I hope you enjoy it and, as always, thank you-again-for reading and reviewing!

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><p><em>My dear Anthony,<em>

_Your Edith sounds like a lovely young woman and I hope you go through with your plans to continue to court her. I thoroughly enjoyed the recounting of your concert…_

Anthony's eyes arrested on Sarah's opening… "Your Edith. Hmm." He couldn't help but smile at his older sister's intuition, her subtle way of turning a phrase that always gave him pause. The scent of the bouquet, the feel of her hand in his… "Get hold of yourself—"

"Sir?"

Anthony turned. "Yes, Stewart?"

The valet handed him a post. "Just arrived, Sir."

"That's odd—the others came—"

"Urgent marked, Sir. Whitehall."

Anthony nodded, a curt and sober movement. "Thank you."

"And this evening, Sir?"

The gentleman looked at the clock. "Oh dear—it is quite late. I'll be ready shortly; please make sure the car is ready. Thank you, Stewart."

Hours later, after Lady Wren's seven-course meal and a glass of brandy, Anthony chatted to friends as they awaited their still-socializing wives. Anthony glanced around the drawing room as he listened to Morse's final pronouncements on the dinner. There—he'd missed her earlier in the evening, but now he claimed his opportunity. He patted Alistair on the shoulder, and spoke to his host.

"'Tis a wonderful gathering, Geoffrey, I agree," Anthony said. "Do pardon me, gentlemen, I'll return in a moment."

Violet Crawley sat on the far side of the room, listening and watching the other ladies. To Anthony, she resembled a hawk assessing its territory and seeing no potential threats. Given the invitation and his schedule, and Edith's plans in York with Sybil, he knew the evening would not be a repeat of what he'd experienced just the week before at Catherine's. The next best thing, however, was being able to talk about her. He approached Violet, nodding to fellow guests he'd not yet spoken to, and bent down to the Grantham matriarch.

"Lady Grantham?"

Her head angled and brow arched, she looked up at him. "Ah, Sir Anthony."

"How are you?"

"Very well, thank you. And you?"

"Quite well, indeed, thank you."

"I hear that you enjoyed a fine—and quite late—evening with my granddaughter."

Anthony's cheeks blushed even as he smiled. "Yes, it was a rather long concert—and how is Lady Edith? Our schedules conflicted this evening; she mentioned venturing into York with Lady Sybil and I was uncertain as to whether I would be able to attend at all—"

"You would've liked her company this evening?"

"Very much," Anthony confessed. "I find Lady Edith very knowledgeable, so easy to talk to—" He realized his rambling and stopped abruptly, smiling. "She's a lovely young woman."

Violet's eyes widened. "She is—and, yes, she's well. From what I could tell of her disposition and the plans with her sister, she, too, enjoyed the concert and would have preferred to be here tonight—in your company."

The final inflection of her statement caused it to resemble a question rather than a fact. Anthony ignored it, politeness and thoughts of Edith winning out. "Yes, well, perhaps I'll be able to see her again soon as my business allows given the season. Please do let her know I hope she's well—and Lady Sybil, too, of course. Very nice to see you, Lady Grantham."

"And you, Sir Anthony."

The baronet felt her eyes on him as he walked away, but it didn't stop him from smiling to himself or thinking of the upcoming shoot at Downton…of the time with Edith he'd dreamt of and looked forward to all week.

* * *

><p>The shoot commenced on time Saturday. The ladies accompanied some of the gentlemen, as Mary found Matthew—they seemed to get along, Cora noticed—and Edith walked over to Anthony. The couples walked along together over the estate letting the others go ahead.<p>

"You don't mind me accompanying you, I hope?" Edith asked, her eyes golden in the overcast sun of morning.

Anthony smiled. "I would be delighted, of course." She came closer to him and they seemed to admire one another for a moment before beginning their walk. "I always am—delighted, that is—Lady Edith, to be in your company."

He'd done it. With those words and his earnest eyes appealing to her most directly, he'd done it. He caught the wisp of scarlet that graced her features, a shy smile at her lips, before she glanced away to study her boots, the grounds.

They walked in silence for a short while, as Edith's long brown skirt and sweater distracted Anthony in the beginning; he reminded himself of his position, of the fact that he was involved in a shoot, for God's sake, and that he needed to pay attention. Of course, he only hoped that she found him to be equally appealing and that his company served to please her on some level as well. Anthony Strallan only knew that she walked beside him and there was no other place he preferred in the world at that moment. As the others called out, he raised the shot gun and, before either he or Edith realized it, he'd bagged more than a dozen pheasants in the first few minutes alone.

"You're quite good," Edith marveled. "I'd no idea."

"It's been some time since I was able to attend one here—"

"I remember: you finished second behind my father."

"Yes, indeed. I'm afraid that's how it normally goes."

"Your work, especially lately, is far more important; It's not as though you have time for these engagements," Edith said, an air of pride that he would be too busy for such things.

Anthony agreed. "Yes, well, my business keeps me away to the point that I fear your father takes it personally."

"No, Papa would never think that. He's very aware of your obligations."

Anthony smiled. They walked on, their steps not making a sound on the plush grass of the estate as they talked of the most recent developments in the world. Even when silences fell between them, the two smiled, completely at ease with one another before a new topic emerged and they began again with an insightful comment, a gentle laugh. Nearly an hour later, the guns silenced, the party started the long trek back to the house, and, Anthony, feeling particularly victorious in her company, took her hand and placed it on his arm. The two shared an affectionate gaze before Edith slid it into the crook and they stayed in step all the way back to Downton.

There was hesitation on the part of the gamekeeper and those scoring until Robert finally barked at them.

"What is it?" Robert stepped closer to him. "What are the results? We shouldn't have to wait all day."

The poor, middle-aged man, ruddy-cheeked and bright-eyed, gave an astonished grin to the earl and adjusted his hat. "Yes, my lord. Sorry to keep you waiting. The winner is Sir Anthony Strallan."

An audible gasp broke from the party. Anthony blushed scarlet, and then managed to speak up on behalf of the astonished audience, "Surely, there's a miscount—"

"No, Sir! No mistaking it; we've totaled it four times now," the official assured him.

Anthony looked to Robert, shame-faced, a slight wince and apologetic smile.

Robert cleared his throat. "Congratulations, Anthony—a job well done, my dear chap." And, before anyone else could congratulate Anthony on his performance in beating the host, Robert announced, "Please—join us inside for tea. I'm sure we've kept the ladies waiting long enough. Yes, do come inside."

As ordered, the crowd began chattering again and followed one another inside with Robert leading the way and Anthony and Edith still standing in shock outside.

"I think Papa's a bit…overconfident sometimes and it ends up coming back to bite him."

Anthony sighed. "I didn't realize, honestly. I admire his marksmanship and I would never presume to—"

"Anthony, it's all right. I'm sure he'll get over it. He deserves this every now and then," Edith said, grinning with a wicked gleam in her eye.

"I hate that it's me—"

Edith took his arm again. "I'm quite proud of you. I don't think anyone realized your abilities."

"I try not to make them that obvious and I wasn't trying this morning; I seem to have forgotten my place." Anthony looked down and then up at her. "I should excuse myself; I really insulted Robert and I don't—"

"No, please stay for tea, at least. Please. I promise all is well."

Those dark eyes—Anthony Strallan couldn't possibly refuse her. Out of respect, however, for Robert, Anthony did leave earlier than he would have liked, but only after promising Edith tea the following afternoon at Locksley. When he'd proposed the tea appointment, he'd not realized until he drove home that it was her first time in years to come to his home, and, of course, then it was as a mere child in the company of her family—not as…Anthony's heart quivered at the thought…_Locksley's mistress_…

Stewart greeted him at the door, stood close while Anthony removed his boots.

"Congratulations, Sir."

Anthony's eyes shot to his valet. "I'm sorry?"

"On your performance, Sir." Stewart's countenance gave away nothing.

"Wh—you mean—?"

"The shoot, Sir."

Anthony sat tongue-tied with one boot still in his hands, staring at Stewart. "How did you…"

A silence, a pregnant pause. Finally, Stewart's eyes—a darker blue than Anthony's—seemed to laugh, a glimmer in them in the entry light. "Good news, Sir…always travels fast—lightning quick sometimes, I'm sure you know."

Anthony thought a moment, ashamed he too found the circumstance at once amusing and embarrassing. And then he laughed. A chuckle that evoked a crooked smile from his man. "Thank you, Stewart. Thank you very much."

"You're very welcome, Sir." He took the boots as Anthony passed them over. "I'll see to these immediately."

Anthony watched him depart, still a smile on his face, slipped on his shoes, and left to attend to the appointment with his estate manager.

When he sat at his desk that evening writing, Anthony became lost in his thoughts. The day had been long: the shoot, the tea after, the estate appointment, and the too-lengthy dinner with a business man from York. Anthony's mood darkened as he recalled the days' spiraling, negative events, his shoulders still tight from the tension of government news that came by post and through a frantic, unexpected meeting with his friend from York and fellow Whitehall colleague, Harry Thatcher, whose words only served to heighten the anxiety he felt over what the upcoming days and weeks held for the world, for England and everything she held dear. Feeling the late hour, the baronet finally stood and stretched his back. The brandy swirled in his glass as he stared out the window into the colors of dusk. The rest of the world weighed heavily on his back, but thoughts of her surfaced once more. Amidst the turmoil, his mind chose to linger on her. A thought dawned and Anthony took his pen in hand, and smoothed the leaf of paper in front of him.

_My dearest Sarah,_

_I pray this letter finds you well. I wish to invite you and yours to a dinner here at Locksley; the upcoming date has yet to be determined and, should you be available, I shall use the opportunity to introduce you to Lady Edith Crawley again as she has most certainly grown up since last you met her. I know it's early yet, but I fear my heart is already hers and—with the possibilities of a war—I see time is of the essence and I've no wish to wait. Of course, I waver as to whether or not I should continue seeing her; she is so young, and, despite Alistair's and Catherine's avid encouragement, I see where it is but a selfish gesture to clip her wings, particularly given my proximity to the current political situation and my obligations and duties should conflict break out. Your wise counsel on this would be much appreciated._

_Regarding today, you will never believe me, given you've known Robert as long as I have, but today's shoot did not go quite as planned. I'm afraid I embarrassed myself with my performance, though Lady Edith was quite pleased and, from the glimmer in Lady Grantham's eyes I would say she, too, enjoyed the sight of Robert nearly speechless at his unexpected loss to his old friend and neighbor…Anthony Strallan…yes, it's true…_

The following day, Anthony again found himself reading the news with grave concern. Others knew enough, but the appointed delegate, ranking-major, and baronet from Yorkshire, knew to read between the lines—and the message became increasingly clear. He felt Stewart arrive at his side as he sat at his desk in the library.

"Another from Whitehall, Sir."

Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed his eyes, and took the post from his man. "Of course—thank you."

Stewart turned to leave.

"Um, Stewart, please make sure Mrs. Brandon has tea and cakes prepared for Lady Edith's arrival."

"Yes, Sir. I believe she's already made something special, Sir."

Anthony's voice faded a bit, his attention on the script in front of him, as he absently said, "Thank you."

Just over an hour later Stewart led the young lady inside to the library where the two found Anthony, pensive and leaning over his desk with his sleeves unbuttoned and pen busily working. The master of Locksley didn't move and, in those moments, Stewart watched and then his lips upturned ever so slightly as Edith's eyes took in everything: books, the tables and furniture heirloom pieces still the same, the standing globe, the window dressings, and her favorite, the hearth, though it stood empty this afternoon.

Stewart then looked to his master's back still towards them. He cleared his throat. "Sir—Lady Edith—"

Anthony started and stood, immediately reaching to straighten and button the cuffs of his shirt. "Yes! Lady Edith, of course! Do come in—"

"I didn't mean to disturb," Edith said, walking towards him.

The baronet took her hand in his as she extended it. "No, not at all." He gestured to the sheaf of papers beginning to overwhelm his desk. "I was just tidying up some…correspondence."

Edith's eyes swept the desk; she nodded, smiling still.

Anthony saw the gleam in her eyes, hoped everything he felt was reflected just as brightly in his own. "Shall I—perhaps—show you the estate?"

"I'd love to, yes," Edith gushed.

Anthony nodded to Stewart. "Tea in just a while, Stewart. We'll take a short walk and return."

The warm breeze greeted them as the French doors opened to the back of the estate and the orchard, the gardens.

"It's been so long; I honestly can't remember being here before," Edith admitted.

"Nearly five years ago, I think." Anthony felt her beside him, their arms touching. He hesitated, but as they walked along, he easily took her hand and nestled it in the crook of his arm.

Anthony spoke of the estate, his father and mother's love of the land, the duty he felt in maintaining and improving everything she laid eyes on there; when she asked specifics related to the mechanization of the farms, he beamed and walked her to the outbuildings where the newest harvesters were kept. Amazed, she went in to the shadowy shelter, and Anthony observed her in a state of awe as her hands ran along the steel and her voice filled the space. She spoke animatedly about the future, the changes coming with economics and voting, women's rights—

"Nothing will ever be the same—these next few years—" She'd walked back to him and stopped for a breath, staring up at him with eyes afire and cheeks flushed with passion, and him smiling the sweetest of enchanted smiles and so close, just right there…

Anthony leaned closer. "No, Edith, nothing will ever be the same. I expect all will be very different."

Uncertainty filled her eyes. To him, she seemed to be reluctant to act, even as he held himself back, buried the rush of impulse that so desperately wished to taste her lips.

"We should—go inside, I think," he reasoned. "I'm sure tea is…ready."

Neither moved. Eyes searched one another for everything felt but clandestine, hidden beneath the layers of manners, of years of childhood teachings and warnings, and the umbrella of propriety that draped every action and pretense of all in their class. Hostage to those rules and the duties, the respect he felt so deeply for her, Anthony succumbed to kissing her hand and led her back to the library.

Seeing the business that awaited him at his desk, the truths he must share with her if he seriously sought to pursue her and this courtship, Anthony's worries contrasted starkly with the beauty and loveliness of the young woman who possessed his present. Edith sensed the change in him and was quiet as they ate and drank their tea, an expectation of foreboding that seemed appropriate given his sober countenance. As the time slipped by, Stewart came in and proceeded to make a fire for the latter afternoon and evening, and she couldn't help but notice Anthony's tense look into the flames, and then the absent drifting of his eyes over the titles that filled his library. She touched his sleeve.

"You're distracted…"

Anthony's attention snapped to her immediately. "I'm so sorry—"

"It's all right. You're worried. Is it…anything you can…talk about?"

His mouth opened and closed.

Edith smiled. "It's not good news, is it?"

"No, I'm afraid not," he confessed. "There's been a…stalling in terms of talks…" He turned to her, touched her chin to level her gaze with his. "Edith, the time I've spent with you, well, you must know it is the happiest for me; these weeks have been dreadful in terms of work, but so pleasurable when I'm in your company. You've been a refreshing and wonderful light, so to speak, amidst the darkness." He smiled, but then frowned, apologetically. "I'm afraid though, Edith, that despite our efforts, there will likely be a war—"

"No, don't say—"

"I'm afraid it's true and I pray it will be short if there is one. I can't…divulge the nature of the talks—the disintegration of the diplomatic solutions—but it's a quite real possibility. If there is an outbreak…an…inciting incident, then…"

Edith absorbed what she knew he was telling her. "You'll go…"

Anthony nodded slightly. "Yes, I'm afraid I'll have to go. There are a few others, but…"

A long moment.

"If…if it happens, then you'll be in London?"

The silence seemed answer enough, but he finally replied. "Yes, at least, initially." Anthony saw her reaction and swore, for a mere second, what looked to be horror and then a steel-strong resolve.

"Then, we shall make the most of it."

Anthony tilted his head. "You…wish to continue seeing me knowing—"

"Absolutely," she affirmed, staring at him in disbelief. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I thought a younger suitor or someone, well, _here _in Yorkshire would be a better match—"

Edith laughed and touched his arm. "You really don't understand."

"No, I'm afraid I don't," Anthony agreed. "You are young and lovely and so intelligent and—a wonderful lady who would make any gentleman proud—"

Edith's eyes glistened, a sudden spring of tears.

"Did I say something wrong?" Anthony reached for his handkerchief in a panic. "Edith, I apologize. I'm so sorry! What is it?"

She took the handkerchief and waved her hand. "No, no. It's just—" She dabbed her eyes. "No one's ever…noticed."

Anthony's brow rose, and he took both her hands in his. "Then the entirety of the world must be utterly blind for you are—" He knew the prudent words to use, but couldn't quite stop himself from the truth of his heart. "Everything…everything any man could possibly want." He swallowed. "Edith, I feel privileged to have this time with you, this courtship, if indeed you wish to allow me to continue seeing you, then I would be most honored; however, should you feel differently, that I am not a suitable match for you—and one should be very careful in pursuing a partner for marriage—then you only need tell me and I will willingly bow out, for your happiness is—"

Edith held up her hand, almost touching his lips to cut him off. "You're…very sweet when you're nervous and so…gentlemanly—rather knight-like, I must say, _Sir _Anthony."

They shared a light chuckle then, a tentative acknowledgement of their proximity together on the sofa.

"But I've no other suitors. I do," she said, nodding slowly, "wish to continue, so I hope you do desire a true courtship…with me… I cannot tell you, honestly, I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed…being with you."

A knock sounded and the couple looked first to their hands, still intertwined, and Anthony tenderly released hers.

"Come in," he said.

Stewart appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Morse and Lord Abbott, Sir, will be arriving within the hour."

Anthony nodded. "Of course, yes. Thank you, Stewart."

The door closed softly. Edith looked down at the rug in front of the hearth, but Anthony touched her chin and cheek and waited for her eyes to meet his.

"My apologies—a business dinner that I cannot avoid—and one that I wish you could attend with me."

Edith blushed and her eyes, demure, gazed up at him. "It's all right; the hour is late," Edith said. "My parents have guests coming tonight and my presence is…required…though I've no idea why."

The words broke his heart. He grimaced, a new determination alive in him and confessed, without fully thinking it through, "Only for a short while longer, my sweet one."

Edith was stunned, or so it seemed, and Anthony took her hands and helped her stand. He walked her out to meet the Downton chauffeur, Branson. Anthony waved to the young man who immediately went around and opened the car door. Standing just outside of the vehicle, Anthony kissed Edith's cheek.

"How would you like, perhaps, dinner with my sister and her husband? It's been some time, but things have…changed since last you made her acquaintance."

"Yes, that would be lovely, thank you," Edith replied. She glanced inside the car and saw Branson waiting patiently. "I should go," she whispered.

"Yes, yes, of course. Dinner with Sarah and…if you enjoy picnics—"

"I do! Very much!"

Anthony couldn't help but kiss her cheek again. "We shall plan one quite soon, I promise."

He held her hand as she leaned and sat in the car, could've sworn he felt her squeeze ever tighter to his fingers as he began to relinquish the grip, and he watched as Branson drove her away.

Back at his desk, he looked to his calendar and diary…the next few days if Sarah could make it…the picnic the following week…perhaps a drive in-between or before or after…and to London for a ring…and began in his journal: _Perhaps I'm an old fool, one blinded by romantic love I've never known, but the way she looked at me today leads me to believe she may, in fact, feel something akin to affection for me as well and that, perhaps, we could find a happiness together that has eluded us until now…_


	8. Chapter 7

_A/N: Thank you for your kind wishes and patience as I get some real-life stuff taken care of in between writing and updating stories. I am so thankful for the story updates I've seen, and, most especially, for the writers and readers who continue to share their creativity and talents and thoughts and enthusiasm in our community-this wonderful community! If I'm unable to post again soon, I wish my American friends a wonderful Thanksgiving and, to my friends across the pond and in other lovely corners of the world, I thank you and wish you love and joy as the holidays come upon us! I was initially quite hesitant (insecurities and such) to join you all here, but I'm so glad I did. I've learned so much by taking part and I'm touched by the friendships I've developed through this beautiful online community. _

_I do hope you enjoy this little installment :) Thank you again for reading!_

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><p>The mist of rain fell on Locksley's endlessly rolling green hills. Anthony watched it hit the pane in gentle thumps, and then slowly ebb its way down the glass.<p>

Sarah and Jacob had arrived late the previous evening, swept in with the harder rain that pelted the region for a short time. Still dripping with the out of doors, she'd hugged him affectionately and held him close for a moment—long enough to cheerfully say, "Everything—tell me everything!"

Jacob's deep laughter rumbled from behind her, his hand held out to greet Anthony with a firm grip, and, as he did so, he shook his head at his wife's predictable enthusiasm. "Old chap, this is all that she's been talking about."

"No," Sarah protested, her sweet blue eyes narrowed on her brother to convince him. "I've just been so…pleased for you! Do tell me everything—"

"Of course, of course," Anthony said, ushering them both inside.

After recovering herself, thrilled to see her brother in such high spirits, Sarah had rushed upstairs to change into dry clothes, and she and Jacob joined him for a late brandy; she'd asked question after question about her brother's courtship and the dinner he'd planned. Satisfied with her investigative endeavor, she'd shared a look with Jacob and allowed her husband to retire to bed in order for her and Anthony to visit further. Finally, as the mantle clock chimed the small hour of the morning, Sarah let Anthony escort her to her room in the quiet home and they'd bid one another good night.

"Perhaps one day soon this large home won't be so…quiet," Sarah said, the darkness from the corridor softening each word. Anthony stood silent. "I know it's too soon, but—"

"No, no. It's not that," Anthony insisted.

"Anthony?"

The gentleman cleared his throat. "It's that—even with Maud—it feels guilty to say such—"

"No, not at all! Anthony, we know you loved her—"

"I did, I did. I…still do; I don't think one ever really gets over a loss like… Well, I must confess though that what I feel for Edith…is something else entirely."

Sarah stared at his blue eyes shining earnestly in the darkness. "Yes…yes, I'm sure it is." The realization suspended in the twilight corridor and she stood stunned for a long moment. Finally, incredulous and joyous, she felt his quick kiss on her cheek.

"Good night then," he whispered.

"Good night," she murmured after him. He'd turned slightly and she saw the smile still there; she knew he'd been happy to shock her in the most wonderful way and she grinned, too, delighted beyond reason for this blessing…

* * *

><p>Now, with the clouds blended into one another in a rolling gray sky, the rain continued into the afternoon; Anthony's nerves began to get the better of him as his mind flitted between ideas, priorities, business, and Edith...and Edith again. He sipped his tea.<p>

"A dreary day for such a wonderful occasion," Sarah announced, striding into the library to stand beside her brother.

He turned and smiled at her, near giddiness lighting his features; he set the tea on the tray at his desk.

"And you," she continued, "You're the very picture of a schoolboy unable to hide his excitement for the holiday! A gleam in your eye like I've not seen in years, Anthony!"

The baronet smiled. "You'll meet the reason soon enough, though I assure you: you won't recognize her from days' past."

Sarah nodded in agreement. "It's been years. All I can recall from last time is sitting next to Mary—and her icy look when I accidentally spilt tea on her sleeve...and my apologies, which were only met with her ridiculous stare, but then an attempt at humor with a—rather wry, I thought—statement that it did not cause injury at all but—_given the afternoon chill_, _ahem_—must've simply frozen on contact."

Anthony grinned at the memory, too, of how the Crawleys had attended a dinner with others from Yorkshire five years prior. The Strallans had endured Maud's second miscarriage the month before and, in an effort to raise spirits, decided to host a party for St. George's. It was only the fourth time in a number of years during which the Crawleys had accepted an invitation to the Locksley estate; Robert and Cora had been polite and socially appropriate, talking quietly with Anthony and Maud for some time as the parties mingled; Mary seduced the attentions of a couple of gentleman neighbors; Sybil had disappeared outside, presumably with Anthony's nephew…and…

Sarah shook her head. "But…where was Edith during that time?"

Anthony Strallan frowned at his sister. "I've no idea..."

"It seems the other Crawleys took up so much space in the room that…Anthony, was it always that way for her?"

Anthony blinked, his lips parted. "Yes, I think so," he whispered.

When he turned to her though, saw the sorrow and empathy, Anthony shook his head and his brow rose—determined.

"I shall make certain it's never that way again. In fact, I've tried—in every way, Sarah, from the start—to show her how I feel…how…since that afternoon my life has…changed course completely."

"And permanently, given your plan to visit London, yes?"

"Yes," he admitted. "I've something in mind, but—well, it all depends, I think, perhaps, on the inventory—the availability of certain…what? What is it?"

Sarah didn't say a word, merely embraced her brother, her love for him and happiness for his happiness manifesting as she held him tightly...

* * *

><p>Anthony sat in his white tie and waistcoat; Sarah, dressed in summer blue with white gloves, smiled at him from her chair across the library. She sipped her cocktail as Jacob stood by the hearth, amused at the scene. Anthony's eyes traveled the room, his hands smoothing his trousers as he crossed and uncrossed his legs.<p>

"Why did you not drive to pick her up?" Sarah asked, nonchalant in tone.

"I felt it a bit impertinent, after all, with you and Jacob here, and…well, she had an engagement, too, this afternoon and we weren't certain of the exactness of the timing and so forth and the Downton chauffeur—Mr. Branson—is excellent and…" His voice drifted and, suddenly, in the course of his anxious movements, his elbow bumped a paper and then a pen clattered to the floor beside his shoe. He stuttered apologies for the sudden disturbance amidst the quiet waiting.

Jacob's laugh erupted unapologetically and loud. "Listen here—Anthony!—you mustn't be so nervous. Old chap you're going to frighten her away with your ceaseless fidgeting!"

Sarah's gentler laugh contrasted with her husband's. She rose and met Anthony as he stood and replaced the pen on his desk, scarlet from the embarrassment. "Anthony, it's all right—"

"A ridiculous, childish—"

Stewart appeared. "Lady Edith Crawley, Sir." The door opened wider and the earl's daughter stepped into the room, flushing the very pink of her silk gown and gloves. Was it from the hurry of her arrival and—nerves? Excitement, perhaps?

"Lady Edith—" Anthony froze, for a second, before rushing a bit too eagerly to her. He welcomed her with a warm touch of hands and a brief kiss of greeting on her cheek.

"So sorry," Edith began. "I think I'm actually a bit early; I do hope it's all right—that I haven't—"

"No, no. Everything's fine—just fine. You look very lovely," Anthony assured her, smiling widely. "We're just waiting and ready and—" As he turned to introduce her to his sister, he caught the knowing glance between Sarah and Jacob, and he felt the heat and knew his neck and ears gave away the blush. "And we typically are early as well."

"Family trait," Sarah confirmed, rising to greet Edith. "Good evening, Lady Edith—"

"Edith, this is my sister, Sarah Chetwood," Anthony said, and then gestured to Jacob, "and her husband, Jacob."

As the ladies exchanged greetings, Anthony tried to control the surge of heat in his chest. Watching them for a long minute, his gaze never leaving Edith's dark eyes—her own glancing nervously to the others before finding Anthony's— he saw the flash of future awaiting them, and, finding his voice, announced the commencing of the dinner.

In moments the party sat together in Locksley's dining room, wine poured, and the first course of Mrs. Brandon's meal being served… The laughter and conversations then came easily: the histories, the last time they'd met together, Jacob's work and Anthony's position, the political situation, Anthony's time at Cambridge as Sarah regaled them with stories of her younger brother's formative years—tales she knew the gentleman himself would never tell, favorite novels and insights… One topic led to the next and, always, laughter and wit…

Hours later, sitting once more together in the library, Sarah and Edith chatted to one another quietly as Anthony and Jacob sipped brandies. Sarah, listening attentively to the young woman, kept her eyes on her brother. Anthony tried to politely engage in conversation, but nothing Jacob could say enticed his full attention from her. Each time Edith smiled or laughed, whether beside her or across the room and whether he'd evoked the reaction or simply witnessed it, Anthony's eyes lit.

The evening grew far too late and Anthony Strallan watched his sister yawn—subtle, ladylike—before excusing herself.

"It's been such a pleasure to spend this evening with you, Edith," Sarah said, rising and reaching for Edith's hand.

"And you, Mrs. Chetwood." Edith clasped her hand in return and blushed, a quick glance in Anthony's direction as he stood just behind her. "Thank you for a lovely evening."

"I do hope to see much more of you." Sarah shot a pointed look in her brother's direction before smiling sweetly once more and embracing the younger, petite woman.

Watching Sarah depart to retire upstairs, Anthony and Edith were quiet and the only sounds for that long moment consisted of pops and hisses from the flames of the hearth.

Edith turned first, looked up to her host with wide, earnest eyes. "Thank you, Anthony. This was a lovely evening."

"Rather low-key, I suppose, but—"

"My favorite evening thus far," Edith assured him with a sudden burst of passion. She'd leaned towards him and nearly grasped the lapels of his white tie and coat.

Her breath, the scent of the wine from dinner, and the wisp of hair that fell by her cheek, and Anthony felt his heartbeat quicken in measure.

"I'm so sorry. Terribly forward of me—"

Anthony shook his head and, before he could stop himself, touched the strand of hair. "No, it's…all right." Tender, his hands took hers and he leaned and kissed her cheek. "My favorite as well…" He drew back to look at her, studying her in the glow of the lamplight. "Though I've no idea what you could possibly—well, it's obvious you're young and lovely and intelligent and—Edith, I'm still at a loss as to why you would want to spend time with me—" His sweet and hesitant stutter combined with the earnest words evoked the blossom of crimson once more at her cheeks.

"Anthony, has it not occurred to you that I might see you as…handsome and charming and…a wonderful…match for my sense of humor…and personality?" Edith's eyes could only hold his for another brief moment before her courage evaporated and she ducked her gaze to stare at the floor.

"I've wanted you to be so certain of my affection for you that I've only paused once or twice to…consider you may, hopefully, return…those…feelings…for me. I think so often of that afternoon a short time ago and the drive and—I'm all wrong for you, Edith; I'm old and boring and I've so little to offer a young woman with so much of life's best years ahead of her—"

In that instant Edith shook her head, desperate for him—to believe her? "Anthony, please. You must know that…when we're together I feel…respected and appreciated and…perhaps even…"

"Loved." The admission graced his tongue unexpectedly and both stood stunned for a moment.

Edith swallowed hard, the swirl of happiness and shock causing her to appear to swoon in front of him. "I'd hoped, but…"

"I do…very much, Edith, respect and appreciate you—"

"And I…you," Edith whispered.

Anthony smiled. "Then, you'll still join me for a picnic the day after tomorrow? I've asked special permission from your mother—"

"She didn't say a word—"

"I'd mentioned it before to you, but felt it appropriate to ask formal permission to protect you and your reputation as well as…sort of let the world know that we're…together." Anthony chastised himself for fumbling the words, for sounding so…boyish.

To his delight, however, Edith grinned, joyously surprised at the notion that her mother would allow such independence and so obviously trusted Anthony to take care of her. "Together," she affirmed. "I'd love to, yes." She gave him a schoolgirl sort of shrug and tried to nod excitedly—but with restraint, in the end. Controlled and mature and ladylike again, she replied, "Of course, I'm sure Mama knows that I've nothing else planned, so yes…I'm very much looking forward to it."

"Excellent. Yes, excellent. There's a beautiful part of Locksley—I do hope it doesn't rain—but I'd like to show you. I go there rather frequently, have ever since I was a boy, but it's difficult sometimes—" He realized his rambling and hesitated, though she continued smiling up at him. Concluding she was not interested in his elaboration, he glanced to the clock. "It's quite late; my apologies for keeping you so—"

"Anthony, it's all right. I'm enjoying every—"

"No, no. We mustn't have anyone wondering, most of all Mr. Branson. I fear he's probably fallen asleep outside awaiting your return; I wouldn't want him thinking anything untoward."

"No one doubts your status as a gentleman, Anthony."

The gentle firmness with which she stated the fact startled him and he stared at her. "Nor would I want them to—nor would I want them to ever think less of you."

"Mr. Branson isn't one to gossip, I assure you," Edith said. "I trust him and, besides, I think he likes you…and I know he's always respectful to me."

"Likes me? Now, why would he like—"

"You drive. Papa doesn't," Edith answered, an obvious sparkle in her luminous eyes.

Anthony laughed and the emotion brightened his blue eyes.

"You were kind to him, as well."

Anthony looked bemused. "I don't know what you're—"

"When you came for the drive that afternoon."

The gentleman smiled but shook his head. "I don't recall anything out of the ordinary. I only said hello and we spoke for a moment about the car."

Edith laughed. "And how often do you think anyone at Downton does that? Except for me—and Sybil, though I can't think why other than she's being Sybil—no one gives him the time of day, really. Papa doesn't care for him; he's Irish and—"

"He's knowledgeable and takes care of you when you're out and about, yes?"

"Well, yes, he's quite a good chauffeur and—as you say—very knowledgeable." Anthony's reasoning made its impact in that moment; he could see her realize what he meant and see his inherent respect for Tom Branson's duties and the way in which he performed them.

The clock chimed.

"It has been a lovely evening, Edith, but I think it's time."

Still engaged in the previous thoughts, she nodded. "Yes, thank you."

Anthony took her elbow gently, led her out to the foyer where they met Stewart and Branson.

"It's been a wonderful evening, Stewart—Mr. Branson. But I do believe it's quite late and Lady Edith needs to be returned home safely."

Branson gave a curt, smart nod. "Yes, Sir. I'll get the car."

Anthony and Edith shared another smile as the young man went quickly out the door. Anthony allowed Stewart to hold the door for them and the couple walked out to the drive as well.

"I'll see you for the picnic the day after tomorrow, Edith," Anthony whispered, the night bringing a sort of discretion to his voice.

"Yes, I can't wait; I mean, I'm…" She became flustered. To Anthony, she seemed to be upset, saying too much rather than appeasing and merely accepting the gentleman's invitation as he knew she was certain as a lady she was supposed to do.

Rescuing her moment of what he hoped was simply unladylike indulgence, he simply said, "I can't wait either; indeed, I hope it will be a wonderful day for it and I'm looking forward to it."

Edith breathed deeply. "I am as well, yes. Thank you. Thank you for dinner and for this upcoming picnic."

As the words left her, the car arrived. Anthony waved off Branson's beginning movements to get out and open the door for Edith and Anthony opened her door instead and held out a hand to help her inside. "I'll send a post tomorrow," Anthony said.

"I promise a reply then." Edith looked up into his eyes; he couldn't help but feel that she could read everything inside of him in those moments. He hadn't said it yet, but God how he hoped she knew how he felt.

Anthony caught himself, turned then to Branson. "Thank you, Branson." He looked once more to Edith. "Good night, Lady Edith."

"Good night, Sir Anthony." She waved once as the car drove away.

Anthony stood in the darkness until the vehicle disappeared completely. When he returned inside to his study, Anthony took up his pen and stationery ready to begin the invitation to her for the picnic.

_My dear Edith, _

_I'll arrive at 1pm to take you to the picnic I've planned. I pray the weather is excellent. Thank you for the wonderful dinner this evening. Thank you for_

He paused and, finding the paper by the picture of the ring he desired for her, wrote beside the delicate design: _Lady Edith Strallan... _The baronet smiled to himself. "So close," he whispered. "I feel we're so close..."


	9. Chapter 8

_A/N: It's been a while since I updated this one, so I hope I've made up for that in length :) As always, thank you for reading and reviewing. I hope you enjoy this installment and, if you have a moment, let me know what you think... _

* * *

><p>"Pleased, Sir?"<p>

Anthony's lips twitched, finally making their way into a grin as his bright blue eyes stared down into the box in his hand and the jewel that rested there. His large hands shielded the treasure from curious eyes of those who might be passing by in the carriage. The gentleman delighted in the classically-influenced modern design and sparkle. He could not tear his eyes away from the future he held to meet his valet's, only whispering, "Yes, Stewart, more than you know."

Stewart bowed his head briefly, and then he glanced again at his master and smiled to himself.

Meetings at the Whitehall offices had taken most of the morning. Anthony departed directly after and reached New Bond Street and the premiere jewelry home of Asprey just before noon. Slowly perusing the selection, Sir Anthony Strallan answered the elderly gentleman's questions about the prospective lady and was shown a nearly perfect specimen of a ring; Anthony ordered a slight alteration to the cut itself and was guaranteed satisfaction upon his return at the close of business that evening.

Now, as he endured the train ride, held the tiny box close and examined the treasure within, he could only think, imagine in the most fantastical dream what her expression would be when she saw it for the first time, when he placed it on her finger—if she said yes, of course—and listened assiduously as he explained the meaning behind it. The feeling of anticipation began working at him, eating away his insides with utter happiness. A while later, back in Yorkshire and, with his arrival at Locksley, the plans for the picnic the following day commenced.

As Anthony sat at his desk that evening, a lamp lighting the papers before him, he studied the ring, tilting it to catch the light. The diamond in the middle, a perfectly cut rose with 19 facets—he'd been particular about the cutting—shone and sparkled with each movement. Anthony chose the facets after much contemplation; he wanted her always to remember the year in which they had met and courted and married. Yes, he wished the marriage to take place soon, for he could not allow the war to separate them; however, he also knew she deserved a large, well-planned affair with all of the appropriate guests an earl expected for his daughter's wedding. Anthony remained troubled regarding the dates and plans, but for now—in the quiet of his library—he welcomed the quandaries and the plans that lay ahead. Between his fingers beneath the light, angling the diamond to and fro to allow every facet to shimmer, Anthony saw the promise of his future crystallized. Finally able to tear himself away, he read her note once again: _My dear Anthony, I very much look forward to the picnic with you… _His eyes traced each bend of the writing, each stroke of the pen, and came to rest at her name. As though in answer to her writing and his upcoming gesture, Anthony, taking his own pen in hand, took a leaf of stationery and wrote her name in his script with one distinct addition: _Edith Josephine Strallan…_

The thick clouds brought shadows and light as the early afternoon arrived at Locksley. Anthony finished his final letter of business directives to Lt. Todd, and then he hurried upstairs to see to his vest and tie and one final touch of Yardley's English Lavender before descending back downstairs to check the finer details for the picnic. Mrs. Brandon hummed in the kitchen, her rhythmic movements in arranging the last bit of cream nearly comical to Anthony and Stewart as they observed for a moment before Stewart cleared his throat.

"Mrs. Brandon," Anthony said. "Thank you for the preparations. It looks wonderful."

The middle-aged woman, now pink with embarrassment and white with the dusting of flour and sugar and whatever else she had used in the cooking that morning, smiled at them. "You're very welcome, Sir. I do pray all goes well. The strawberries should stay cool, as well as the cream if you're able to settle—"

Anthony held up his hand. "No, no. Without any conditions, I'm sure it will all be delicious. Thank you so much, Mrs. Brandon."

She nodded kindly and waited for the gentleman to depart before turning once more to the cream.

"I'm off to pick up Lady Edith," Anthony said to Stewart, donning his driving cap and gloves, as well as draping his car coat over his Harris Tweed and burgundy tie. "We shall return in a short while, Stewart, and, if you will, please set up the picnic area with the food and wine—and the flowers there—please?"

"Of course, Sir. Anything else?" Stewart opened the door for Anthony.

"I can't think of anything." He shook his head, the blond hair disheveled slightly from the cap. His blue eyes shone in the sunlight from the outdoors. "No, I think that's all. I'm off."

"Yes, Sir," Stewart agreed. The valet watched as the gentleman drove out of sight towards Downton before returning to the kitchen.

Mrs. Brandon didn't have to look up from the basket preparations. "A modern picnic for the gentleman and his modern young lady."

"Yes," Stewart murmured, watching the packing of the food as the cook carefully set in the sandwiches, cheeses, and the cream at the bottom, then gently added the strawberries and topped it with a bottle of wine. "I have the bouquet already; I can add it when I set it up by the creek."

The matronly cook finally glanced up. "This is the happiest I've seen him, Stewart—ever—and I've known the man for more than fifteen years."

"I know, Mrs. Brandon," Stewart acknowledged. He easily lifted the basket. "I've a feeling after today things might become even more…joyful here at Locksley."

The valet and the cook exchanged clever grins before Mrs. Brandon burst into a laugh. "Go on then and be careful with th—"

Stewart laughed as he walked out of the kitchen, collected the bouquet he'd carefully set by the door, and went about his duties all the while imagining the wedding to come and the changes he knew the next few months would hold…

* * *

><p>Anthony hummed as he drove, rehearsing his words as his Rolls Royce shortened the distance from him to her with each passing moment. As he turned up the drive to Downton, he abruptly stopped humming—and laughed, touched his pocket and felt the tiny box. "My dearest darling…"<p>

Instead of taking it from his coat and looking once more at the diamond within, he shook his head. "Not until time. Not until time."

The baronet felt his nerves come alive as he ventured from the car and hurried to the front door, whipping off his cap and straightening his hair as best he could.

"Afternoon Carson," he said.

"Afternoon, Sir. Lady E—"

"Actually, I wondered if Lord Grantham was available?"

Carson raised his brow just slightly. "I am sorry, Sir. He went to Ripon this afternoon. Shall I—"

"It's all right," Anthony assured him, though he felt the twinge of disappointment. "I will talk with him later, perhaps. I believe, then, that Lady Edith is expecting me."

"Yes, Sir. She and Lady Grantham are in the drawing room, Sir. This way, please."

Anthony followed the butler down the corridor to the drawing room where the two women waited. Upon entering, his eyes immediately fell on her and she stood slowly from where she had been sitting. Edith wore a rosewood pink frock and held her hat in hand, perfectly eager to venture out.

"Good afternoon, Lady Grantham—Lady Edith." Anthony walked over to them, stopped in front of Cora before smiling and bowing slightly to Edith.

Cora looked from Anthony to an obviously glowing Edith. "Good afternoon, Sir Anthony. Edith and I were just talking about the lovely picnic you've planned."

Anthony smiled easily. "Yes, though I do hope the rain stays away."

"Yes," Cora agreed, as Edith continued to stare at Anthony. "I believe it will—stay away, of course. If not, I'm sure tea inside at Locksley wouldn't disappoint Edith."

Edith nodded and finally spoke. "Of course—tea and…a game of chess or…cards or something…"

"Yes. Um…I wished to speak to Lord Grantham, but Carson informed me he'd gone for a short while this afternoon?"

Cora smiled and tilted her head slightly, knowing Anthony's motive without giving too much away. "I will certainly let him know you would like to speak with him."

"Thank you," Anthony said. He offered his arm to Edith. "It's rather…important that I speak with him."

"I understand," Cora's smile evaporated and she nodded, her bright eyes narrowing slightly and lips pursed. "Perhaps when you return Edith before dinner tonight? Robert should be back by then."

Anthony's hand rested on top of Edith's where she had placed hers at the crook of his arm. He glanced to her before turning back to Edith. "Yes, that sounds perfect. I've to be in York for a dinner tonight, so when I bring Edith by I'll just need to speak with him for a few minutes. Thank you, Lady Grantham."

The couple smiled simultaneously at Cora and then began walking out to the waiting open Rolls Royce.

"A social dinner?" Edith couldn't help but ask.

Anthony shook his head. "I wish, my dearest darling, but no. You should know if it were social—"

"I'd be going with you."

Astonished at her confidence in stating rather than asking, Anthony's eyes met hers and his crooked grin appeared. "If you wished, yes." By this time they had made it to the car and Anthony added, without thinking, "Is that arrangement for dinners we have in the future quite all right with you, Edith?"

The blush of pride bloomed. "It is _quite _all right, Anthony."

The entire drive he thought he could feel her eyes on him. He had glanced over to her multiple times, only to have her meet his eyes with hers—the shyness gone, replaced with a smile and glow at her cheeks. The look touched his very soul and Anthony could not help but feel the warmth that had nothing to do with the layers of clothes and the weather. Once at Locksley, he'd taken her hand to help her out of the car and she had held on through the house, to the orchards, all the way to the quiet beauty of the creek where he had instructed Stewart to set up the picnic. When he saw his favorite place adorned already with a blanket and the collection of roses resting atop the basket of food, he stared intently at Edith.

He would never forget it: the utter bliss she exhibited in that moment.

"It's absolutely wonderful," she said, stunned by the sight of it all. She looked up to him as he stood beside her. "I can't…I can't imagine anything more…perfect."

Anthony took her hand and led her to the blanket and allowed her to arrange herself comfortably. He walked to the nearby creek. "Stewart will appreciate the compliment," he called over his shoulder.

"He arranged all of this?"

"He did."

"By your orders, I know. You're so…yourself here. More relaxed out here than you have been anywhere I've had the privilege to see you—less distracted, I know."

He paused for a moment and gazed at her, but he remained bereft as to how to explain the change. "Yes, well—I suppose my grade school primer has echoed in my mind these past days as I've been ashamed of my split attention to you."

"Grade school primer?"

"Yes: 'Work while you work, Play while you play; One thing each time, That is the way. All that you do, do with your might; Things done by halves are not done right.'" He finished the rhyme with a flourish, which evoked an appropriate giggle from her-and a requisite blush at his own cheeks. "I'm with you, Edith, and this is my favorite place in the world," he said, his arms outstretched to encompass the whole of the Strallan property. "I shall not be distracted, not today." He turned and edged closer to the creek.

"But Anthony, what are you doing?"

A quick lean down and he plucked a bottle from the cool waters of the creek, and then stood upright and grinned. "Wine? Chilled on the spot, so to speak."

Edith laughed and nodded enthusiastically. "It's quite rustic—and I do believe I love it!"

Her laughter, dulcet, her smile—Anthony promised himself then that when they married, perhaps a picnic here each anniversary might be in order. He surveyed the surrounding property and swore he could hear children's laughter.

"Anthony, are you all right?"

Snapped back to the present, he walked toward her, gently turning the bottle to allow it to dry a bit in the warm breeze. "Just…thinking," he answered. He folded his tall frame so that he first knelt beside her and then sat easily, their shoulders touching.

"A penny…?" She didn't finish, didn't need to.

As he uncorked and poured the wine, Anthony passed her a glass full of sparkling white and said, "The future…here at Locksley."

"It seems to be weighing on you quite heavily whatever lies in Locksley's future." Edith sipped the wine.

Anthony, too, tasted the chilled wine. "Some important decisions to be made, some changes." He carefully set down his wine glass on a flat patch of the blanket, but Edith instead took it and held it in her other hand. He smiled at her, grateful for her wise decision in preventing a spill. Then, shifting to open the basket, he felt the tiny box again. He stopped. Turning quickly to her, he started, "Edith, I love—"

Edith turned slowly back to him after staring across the creek towards the distant path through the trees to the boundary of the Locksley estate. "Yes, what do you—what was it you loved? Anthony?"

The moment eluded him, passed completely into eternity. "This place. I love this place. I'm very glad you're here so I can show it to you. That's all."

"Me too." Again, her smile. Anthony felt his chest tighten, his hand absently going to the box still resting in his pocket just near his heart.

Alone together in the orchard by the creek, they ate the lunch of sandwiches and strawberries and cream Mrs. Brandon had beautifully packed, talked easily about childhoods and favorite places—including Edith's hidden nook on the third floor of Downton where she read for hours at a time without anyone noticing. After another glass of wine both relaxed comfortably with one another, Edith setting her hat aside and Anthony shedding his coat to lay beside it, the lines of propriety dissolving ever-so-slightly as more time passed. In those minutes after eating, lying on the blanket beside him on her back while he lay on his side, head resting in his hand—Anthony knew he must propose. He watched her dreamily staring at the clouds, laughing as she turned to him, her hand touching his cheek and her fingertips coming to rest at his lips as he smiled at her, the glimmer of mirth in her eyes as she knew she crossed the physical boundary by touching him—and he found he didn't care at all, could only think of other ways in which he wanted to touch her, to kiss those wine-sweetened lips.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"Caring," she said, simply, profoundly.

Anthony felt the piercing and his own determination. "It's more than just caring for you, Edith."

She tilted her head, seemed to beg for a kiss should he cross that line. "For me, too, it's more—something I've not felt…before…not like this. I thought I…_cared _for someone before, my cousin, Patrick, but that seems so long ago, so immature even. You and—" She gestured with a sweep of her hand to the estate. "This…Anthony…" Edith leaned closer to him, her luminous face and sun-brightened eyes boring into him, waiting…pleading.

The gentleman swallowed in an attempt to control his feelings, regain his reason before he surrendered to her completely. "Would you…would you like more afternoons like this, sweet one?"

"Yes, please…this and more—with you, the two of us alone." Edith came closer, tentative but slightly more daring given the effects of the wine.

"I want that, too," and before he could stop her, she had nearly met his lips with hers but certainly kissed his cheek. He could feel her breath by his ear, heard her whisper his name, felt it resonate to the depths of him. "Edith?"

"Hmm?"

The thrill of that sound left him hot and cold at once and he sat up straight, pulling himself away from her. Seeing the look of shock on her face, he quickly kissed her cheek, lingered a bit too long and hurried to distance himself again-apologetic and grimacing.

"I'm sorry, Edith, but I can't—we—can't. Not now," he clarified. "I can't just…" He could see Edith's hurt and embarrassment. "It's not that I don't…I just—"

"You don't want to…kiss me?"

"No! No, that's not it at all!" Anthony took her hands in his. "I want to kiss you," he flinched, his nerves evident as he wrestled with the very essence of the most ungentlemanly of impulses to lay her down right there and— "You've no idea how badly, my dear, but it wouldn't be—"

"Proper?" Edith offered with a hint of disdain.

"Exactly, yes. And I want it to be perfect—when I do kiss you, I want it to be perfect. You deserve perfect and proper-"

Edith's eyes covered the area round them. "This seems quite perfect to me…" It was insistent and sweet and sad.

"Ye-e-s, so it would seem," Anthony agreed, his own eyes peering and fluttering to the landscape and blanket and settling once more on her. He felt her hand resting on his sleeve and, lifted her fingers to his lips. "Soon?" he promised. With a graceful motion, he stood and helped her with each of her hands in his larger ones. He knew he needed to make up for what he couldn't give her before the proposal, so he sought solace with his words in a simple question that was also meant as a declaration: "Will you let me kiss you…soon?"

For a long moment, she simply stared at him with a mixture of emotions: tenderness, pity, sadness, amusement, but finally what could only be the look of love that he knew must also be in his own eyes. "I will…let you—as soon as you would like, Anthony. I'm waiting for you."

The words suspended and Anthony's breath hitched. "Very soon. I promise," he whispered. "Shall we go back? I fear it's getting late."

Edith, though seemingly pleased with knowing how Anthony felt and seeing how he had struggled to confess his true feelings, shrugged her submission and gave a small smile. Together, they put away what was left of the food knowing Stewart would see to it as soon as they returned, gathered her hat and his coat and, with her right hand in his left, Anthony walked with Edith back to the house, completely quiet save for the rustle of their shoes in the grass.

Edith assured him that she could entertain herself in the library while he changed for the business dinner before he drove her home.

"Don't be silly," she implored, her mood lighter now, as though she sensed from their intimacy outside what effect she had on him. "There's no sense in you driving the same way twice in the course of an hour."

"If you're sure you don't mind," he had said. She didn't answer aloud, but walked to the library shelves as he sifted through a couple of posts that had arrived. When he turned, he saw her playfully study the shelves, glancing back at him over her shoulder to make sure he was watching, finger to her lips and then, turning to touch one of the volumes as she acted the part of curious prodigy.

_"The Ideal Modern Farm: A Prophecy_…hmmm," she said, laughter in her voice. She perused a second shelf and then the third—literature. "Wharton—more my style: _The House of Mirth_…"

"Are you mocking my collection?"

Edith flashed a clever grin. "Of course not."

Anthony studied her for a long moment, that creeping feeling of delight fraught with insecurity again surfacing—before he shook his head and smiled at her. "I'll be back shortly. Please excuse me."

Anthony dressed in white tie. When he entered the library, Edith couldn't help but feel proud.

"You look very formal—and handsome—for just a business dinner," Edith cooed.

"It's a bit more complicated, I'm afraid, than 'just' a business dinner,'" Anthony clarified. "I'm sorry I can't be more…forthcoming. Shall we?"

They walked to his Rolls for him to drive her home on his way to York and she laughed. "So, I will miss you. I know that my parents invited you this evening for dinner."

"Yes, I'm sorry, I really can't." Anthony saw the shadow then. "Edith, I want you to know that—well—you know I would be there, that—"

"It's all right."

Anthony took her hand. "If it were up to me…" But he stopped himself.

"If only you weren't quite so important to them at Whitehall," Edith mused.

To Anthony, it took a moment to recognize her wit as opposed to initially feeling that insecurity he had thought he'd dismissed after their dinner with Sarah and Jacob. "I'm not really that important—"

Edith took his arm. "You are and, if I haven't said it, I am proud of you." The twinkle in her eye seemed to say as much and he felt the urge—again—to kiss her then and there…and failed miserably-again.

* * *

><p>Robert met him in the corridor at Downton, already dressed for dinner. "Anthony, how are you? Cora said you needed to speak to me. I'll have you know I've purchased a new Westley—" He went quiet and allowed the couple a moment.<p>

Anthony bid Edith good night, saw her watching him as she ascended the stairs before she waved one final time. He couldn't help but recall a theatre scene in which the lovers parted in just such a manner and he smiled, like a besotted schoolboy, as he turned back to Robert. His smile fell. "I need to speak with you about Edith."

Seeing the blanching on the gentleman's face, Robert interrupted, "Is everything all right? Did you two enjoy the picnic—"

"Yes, yes. Do you have a moment?"

The earl led Anthony to the library and immediately offered him a brandy. "What is it, Anthony?"

"I'd like your blessing in asking for Edith's hand in marriage. I know she's quite young—"

"Yes."

Anthony didn't hear him. "I'll do everything I can, Robert, I only pray she feels—"

"My dear chap—the answer is yes, of course. I'm not blind; I've seen the way in which she looks forward to your visits. I don't think you have anything to worry about regarding her answer."

Anthony gulped the brandy. "My apologies. I haven't…I didn't expect, nor do I understand entirely these feelings…a bit of confusion, really, that someone so lovely as your daughter could…" He stopped his rambling by forcing the glass again to his lips, took another sip, this time more conservative in the amount.

Robert seemed to pity him and then grinned for a moment, a brief raise of his chin and tilt of his head at his amusement regarding the situation. He had known Anthony Strallan for as long as he could remember—good friends and proprietary gentlemen alike in upbringing and values but so different in personalities. Robert couldn't help the present realization that brought a smile to his face as he watched Anthony deal with the surprising courtship: Edith's ability to match with someone so like herself. In an effort to put the wretched man out of his misery, Robert nudged gently, "I don't believe I've ever seen you like this, Anthony. When do you plan to propose?"

The baronet's mind went blank. "I'm…not sure. The picnic did not quite work with the timing; I wished to speak to you first. I thought a drive, but—"

"No, no. I believe Cora's planning a garden party. You can propose and then we can make the jolly announcement while everyone's present." A darker look cast on his host's face.

"Robert, are you all right?"

"Yes, just thinking."

Anthony interjected. "I've thought it through, Robert, I have. I know that war is nearly inevitable—and I will go but…" Standing there, in Downton's library surrounded by Edith's home and family the realization of what he was doing suddenly struck him and he went silent.

"If you're married—perhaps with a family—surely your experience and previous work will allow you the opportunity for something closer to London rather than the battlefield?" Robert waited.

"Perhaps, yes." Anthony, though, knew better. "She would have to say 'yes,' of course, and I've still the notion that she would much prefer someone else-someone younger-despite how well we get on."

"I'm sure she does return your feelings," Robert said, awkwardly, which inexplicably caused Anthony to feel a flicker of doubt again.

Anthony finished the brandy. "Thank you, Robert, for your blessing. I will be prepared to ask her at the party." He stared for a moment into the distorted bottom of the glass. "Thank you, too, for the drink. I must be getting on to the dinner then."

"Of course. Thank you, Anthony."

The two men stepped out of the library, walking towards the front door so Robert could see Anthony out. Just when they passed the drawing room, Mary appeared and looked Anthony up and down with the upturn of a snicker at her thin lips.

"Pardon me. Oh! Good evening, _Sir _Anthony."

"Good evening…Lady Mary," he stuttered.

Edith, now dressed for dinner in a forest green gown, materialized behind her sister, slightly flushed. "Anthony? I thought you had left."

"I was…just leaving, actually."

"Thank you, again," Edith said, "For the wonderful afternoon."

Anthony heard a slight snort or stifled cough. He and Edith turned to see Mary cover her mouth with her gloved hand. Then, Mary arched her brow and turned to stroll back into the drawing room.

"A wonderful afternoon, indeed," he agreed. Feeling Robert beside him ready to usher him out, he nodded. "I'll talk with you again soon, Lady Edith."

"I look forward to it," she said.

Anthony dared not touch her in front of Robert. "Good night. I hope you all have a lovely dinner."

"Thank you," Edith and Robert both answered.

As Anthony and Robert walked out, Robert couldn't help but ask, "The ultimatum, Anthony?"

Caught again in the harsh light of reality, Anthony only shook his head.

"The dinner tonight, yes?" Robert added, his expression grave.

"Yes," Anthony acknowledged. "That's all I can say right now."

"I understand. I've been in touch with a few friends from…before during the Boer War." Robert gave a half smile. "I won't keep you. I do look forward to seeing you at the garden party. I will be very glad to announce the engagement."

"Thank you, Robert. I'll see you then," Anthony said, turning away and walking into the night.

On his way to York, the bubbling of joy resurfaced and he could only see Edith. The dinner took his full attention, the debate and voices droning on, the strategies and possibilities endlessly mulled…the time ebbing ever closer…

* * *

><p>The picnic the day before confirmed his feelings. Seeing her at his Locksley, the sunlight brightening her dark eyes, her smile and modesty as she confessed to him how much this time together meant to her—he'd wanted so desperately just to tell her, to proclaim his feelings with abandon, but deemed it inappropriate. Robert's permission and blessing were required; soon, alone at the garden party, he would have the opportunity to talk with Edith, to ask her properly—away from the other guests—to be his wife.<p>

Parking his Rolls Royce in front of Downton, the fatigue and monotony from the late-night and early morning business in York shaken off, Anthony sat momentarily stunned at the fruition of the idea of marriage—a wedding with Edith as his bride. Giddy with anticipation at seeing her, if only for a short drive, he smiled to himself. Whoever would have thought the middle daughter of the earl's family would care for him? Would fancy herself possibly even in love with him—hadn't she nearly professed as much to him? Would she betray her answer should he hint at a proposal? How he prayed she would.

Hat in hand, Carson already in view through the door, Anthony rang the bell and looked beyond him hoping to glimpse Edith's visage, and the eager baronet attempted in vain to steady his heart should she be otherwise occupied.

"Good afternoon, Carson—is Lady Edith in?"

Her voice came then, melodic from the stairwell as she hurried towards him. "I am! I most certainly am!"

When she appeared, lovely and eager, he knew he'd been right to stop, to risk his heart at the chance to see her just once more before tomorrow.

"I was just driving past—"

"Yes?"

"I thought you might like to come for a spin. If you're not too busy."

Once she donned her coat, Anthony gave a polite nod and smile to Sybil and the telephone company man, and then he and Edith were touring the countryside together. The breeze strong, her body closer to his than any other time before, nearly curling into his side. The afternoon dwindled far too quickly. Parked near Locksley's bounds, Anthony turned to her, memorized her face—stared so intently Edith blushed and glanced to the trees in the distance and feigned interest in the rustle of a squirrel making haste.

"Edith, I can't tell you how very much I've enjoyed seeing you, spending time together. You know that—how I feel, of course, given the picnic yesterday and our talk—"

"I did very much enjoy our picnic and I've always loved talking with you," she said, turning back to him, her eyes wide.

"Yes, yes, me too. I never thought I'd find you…" Anthony lost himself for a moment, so overwhelming was the urge to simply kiss her, to propose right then. Desperate for her answer, his vision so clear for them, he stared at her in earnest, "What I mean is—I have a question for you…that I wish to ask you tomorrow afternoon at the party—your parents' garden party."

He waited for some sign of affirmation or understanding, an intimation—the slightest glimmer—as to what her answer might be, and then lowered his chin, his eyes too shy to meet hers.

"Anthony?"

With a rush of courage, he looked at her with those blue, besotted eyes she'd come to love and he whispered, "I hope your answer will be 'yes,' Lady Edith."

Edith smiled at him. Instead of words, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and clutched him a bit closer, rested her head at his shoulder as he drove them back to Downton.

When he parked, he turned to her and felt her hands at his collar and lips on his cheek, but only for an instant before he heard her whisper, "Tomorrow then."


	10. Chapter 9

_She'd never been kissed, not like this—not the way husbands made love to wives. The teaching of the way lips met, the way they separated, the caress of tongues and touch, the possession that came with the revealing of skin to one another, of heightened sensation with intimate whispers and the fulfillment of the most sacred of pleasures, all of it his to finally share with her. Anthony took his time, delighted in his bride's shy nature and allure and eagerness, both astonished at how beautiful the love given was returned; he held her afterwards as she slept in the tranquility of his arms surrounding her…_

Anthony Strallan woke in bittersweet frustration: the image of Edith as his wife, in his bed, too much for him to suffer. _Soon, _he thought, closing his eyes again to recapture the dream of her. Then, without provocation, he pictured her smiling, flushing in his presence as she had at Downton with Mary beside her. Inexplicable. He shook his head and rang for Stewart. While waiting, Anthony stared at his expression in the mirror: haggard, dark circles beneath his eyes, his cheeks darkened by the night's hours, and his hair—thinner?

"Sir?"

"Stewart," Anthony said, without turning from his image. "I'm old. She's young."

The valet waited, uncertain as to what he should say during this moment of insecurity.

"I'm completely besotted by her—utterly lost—and she's…sweet and kind to me, probably only spending time with me _because _I'm so…" He couldn't finish the thought; reason spoke against these lines but only in the distant recesses of his logical mind. "I don't think she feels the same way; I have been so focused on doing everything to please her and I've not stopped—not really—to consider..."

Stewart patiently waited for Anthony's words to fade before he began. "The picnic went well, Sir, yes?"

Anthony frowned. "Yes…I think so. I nearly said it—I nearly confessed my feelings, but…"

A long silence.

"I love her. I love her, Stewart," Anthony admitted, more to himself than the astute valet. "I wanted to say it, but something stopped me; she's never said it, which she wouldn't, of course, given the circumstances. How am I to know?" He turned away from himself to look directly at his man. "Stewart, it's been years since I courted and with Maud it wasn't like this. How am I to know that this young, beautiful lady feels the same way about me, that I'm not trapping her into a marriage of class rather than love?"

Stewart's expression didn't change, his eyes clear and light in the room's morning shadows. "You can't know for certain, Sir—"

"She blushed the other night at Downton," Anthony interrupted, not rude but lost in his own recollection. "Her sister laughed and Edith blushed and could barely look at me. She knew—had to have known—why I was there to speak with her father. But what if…"

Stewart let his master ponder whatever his imagination conjured. After a moment, he suggested again, "What I mean, Sir, is that you can't know for certain until you talk with her. Today—the garden party—will prove a perfect opportunity for a conversation with her."

"Have I done enough?" Anthony whispered the soft plea.

"Sir, I believe in these past weeks, you have made every effort to demonstrate your feelings to Lady Edith. You will know her feelings when you see her reaction to your profession of your own. Might this be just a bit of nerves before the proposal?"

Anthony finally smiled. "Perhaps, you're right. But I am much older than she."

"Yes, but not old, Sir. You are mature. Maturity is different than mere age; Lady Edith does not strike me as easily fooled by younger suitors whose charms fail to conceal their vacuous natures."

The gentleman stared at Stewart, surprised at the uttered words.

"Did I say too much, Sir?" The slightest flicker of his mouth followed, but Stewart offered no apology.

"No," Anthony said. "You…speak directly. I appreciate that quality in you; I always have."

Stewart pursed his lips and gave a slow nod.

Glimpsing himself in the mirror a final time, Anthony nodded as well. Taking a deep breath, he said, "I shall, as I told her yesterday, pose a very important question today, then, Stewart. I have to tell her and I have to ask and, God willing, she will see in me what she wishes for a future...together." Anthony put his hand at his chest, felt his heart thrum faster at the thought…

* * *

><p>After his breakfast and a walk around Locksley, he sat behind his desk in the library, his focus on the boundary of land—his mind on her: her lips and hair, her eyes so intently on him, the feel of her hand in his, and the regret at not having kissed her. He damned himself for his gentlemanly manners, for the doubt he saw in her afterwards and his own doubts that surfaced at Downton when he'd seen Mary and Edith smiling. Was he the object of their laughter? <em>No<em>, he chastised himself again.

The post before him on the desk required immediate attention and he forced himself to open it.

Mrs. Brandon appeared. "Your tea, Sir."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brandon." Anthony took his cup. Before she walked away, he noticed her still smiling at him—a matronly approval in her expression. "A wonderful day, indeed, Mrs. Brandon. Lady Edith prefers sunshine with just a touch of clouds."

"Yes, it is a lovely day, Sir," she agreed. "I do hope all goes well."

"You know, Mrs. Brandon, she has spoken so highly of you in our visits together." He glanced away so as not to embarrass her with compliments. "You know she loved the concert we attended. There's another I want to take her to, but I'm afraid I'll be gone by then…to London."

"Surely not, Sir," Mrs. Brandon replied, her normally joyful visage sobering. "If you marry—"

"'Twill only postpone the necessary work I will be doing, I'm afraid. If we are lucky, we can have the honeymoon—anything Lady Edith wishes—and I will leave afterwards. The deadline has already passed and I expect a public announcement to come at any moment, which may be what this post I've been dreading to open is all about…"

* * *

><p>Anthony checked his hat and tie a final time, his fingers tapping his vest pocket where the ring lay safely against him, as he stepped out of his Rolls Royce. Walking, searching, his eyes cast over the entire lawn of the garden party's attendees, Anthony found he couldn't quite locate Edith. On any other occasion, she seemed to materialize from nowhere and he saw her immediately. Today, however, the innumerable hats concealed delicate faces from the sun and identities from the guests. Shielding his eyes, cocking his head slightly, he focused on a gathering of ladies on the other side of the canopied space. He tried to make out her height among them but couldn't. Before he took a step to cross the lawn to them, Anthony heard his name.<p>

"Ah, Sir Anthony," Mary Crawley greeted him, a glass of champagne in hand and fake smile upon her lips.

"Lady Mary, how are you?" Anthony said, barely glancing in her direction. "I don't seem to be able to find your sister." Anthony hoped the simple comment might lead to an immediate answer without further conversation; he was in a hurry, after all. He saw out of the corner of his eye, the dark-haired Crawley's hat tilt as though she too looked at the crowd to help him find Edith.

"I wonder where she is," Mary murmured. She turned then to face him and he saw a casual disdain in her features, aloof and humorous as it were. "Of course, she may have been cornered. I know there was some old bore she was trying to dodge."

"Who was that?" Anthony asked, too quickly to hide his jealous and pained surprise, the insecurities so hard-fought suddenly erupting within and hinted at with a furrow of his brow. His eyes went downward and his chest ached, a familiar and visceral pain gilded now with embarrassment at his foolishness.

"I'm not sure," Mary said. She hesitated, her voice discrete, his confidence necessary. "He's simply ghastly apparently, but he'd promised to propose today. I can't tell you how funny she was when she acted it out. She ought to go on the stage."

Anthony attempted to swallow, his mouth dry with the bitterness of humiliation as he stared beyond the crowd to nothingness. "Really? Ah, how amusing…"

"Sir Anthony, are you all right?" Mary asked, turning to look at the ruins she herself fashioned, feigning concern. "You look as though you've swallowed—"

"No, no," Anthony insisted. He attempted a smile but only flinched. "My apologies, Lady Mary, I see Lady Catherine and I must give her my regards. Please excuse me—" He glanced towards the car park, planned his escape.

Anthony walked, quickly, to where Catherine Jervas stood and greeted him.

"Anthony?"

"I'm sorry. I can't stay." He fumbled for a reason besides the obvious that the life he had imagined now seemed shattered. "The war is on—"

"Have you told Edith everything about what you will be doing?"

"No, and I won't be telling her."

"Why not?" Catherine took him by the elbow and steered him politely from the other two she'd been chatting with moments before. "Anthony Strallan, what on earth has happened? Don't you think she deserves to know?"

"I was a joke, an _old bore_. I won't go into it now; I'm off to London tomorrow and need to return to prepare."

"But you were going to propose soon—Alistair said—"

"Today. I was going to propose today, Catherine, and I told Edith yesterday on our drive—hinted at it most seriously, but…I can't now. Mary just told me about Edith's theatrical performance last night in which she…she apparently mocked me."

"You can't just accept that though, Anthony. Talk to her. If she did what Mary said, then she fooled me because the young lady you brought over was not _acting_ in her attentions to you."

"Appears she was acting. It appears everything these past couple of months wasn't what I thought—even Robert was convinced of her interest in me and he approved of the marriage, but I can't now. It was never meant to be. Clearly, it wasn't meant to be—"

"Nonsense," Catherine insisted. "Give her a chance—" Yet, even as she gestured to where Lady Edith stood, now so easily seen in her white dress with curls descending from beneath her hat, Catherine and Anthony stared in confusion as the middle Crawley daughter laughed and chatted to a dark-haired young man neither knew; for a long moment, Edith and the young man smiled at one another and she even reached to touch his arm as she'd done so frequently to Anthony as he led her on numerous occasions over the past weeks. In that instant, Edith appeared everything Mary described to him a short while ago—nothing like a young woman awaiting anxiously a wedding proposal from her love—and Anthony played the fool. Catherine's eyes flashed to Anthony, whose countenance crumbled at the sight of the woman he loved engaging another man's attentions.

"I'm sorry. I must be going," he whispered.

"Anthony, I'm sure there's an explanation. You'll regret it if you don't talk with her."

"I regret all of it right now," he hissed, the pain evident to his close friend. "I'll write you from London." He bowed his head slightly and began to walk to his car, hurrying to leave.

As he reached the edge of the party, he heard her. "Anthony!"

When he didn't turn around right away, he heard his name again, softer, more timid this time and with the title. "Sir Anthony?"

He spun to her and she nearly ran into him, so quickly had she been hurrying to reach for him. "You can't be leaving yet!"

"I'm afraid I must," he said, and then remembering his manners, "Please make my excuses to your mother."

"But—"

With a tip of his hat and slight roll of his eyes –wretched tears halted for the moment—Anthony Strallan allowed his reason to shut his heart, his disciplined mind so well-honed in strategy devoted to various forms of study—in war and peace—to carry him back to Locksley, back to reality…

* * *

><p>"Afternoon, Sir," Stewart said, with a brighter than usual smile that faded quickly.<p>

"Pack my valise, Stewart. I'm leaving on the first train to London, if that's how soon I'm needed."

Stewart followed Anthony to the library, awaiting further orders or explanation.

Anthony took his seat at his desk. "A new post?"

"Yes, Sir." Stewart hesitated for a moment.

"What is it, Stewart?"

"Nothing, Sir."

Anthony knew. "She…didn't feel the same way, Stewart. I was the subject of some horrible joke, it seems."

"I don't believe it, Sir."

Anthony sat quiet. "I'm not sure I do either, but…"

A gloom pervaded the home. Stewart hung his head and departed for Anthony's room and the packing required for his travels. Mrs. Brandon made a small dinner that went untouched, for the most part. She made no mention of the garden party; instead, she offered Anthony a departing gift of his favorite Apple Charlotte, along with a consoling embrace.

Anthony's library remained lit late into the night. The baronet working on letters to be sent at his leave in the morning, including one to Sarah:

_My dear sister—_

_As we feared, war has been declared. I'll be in London for a short time as we work out placements; however, as you well know, intelligence must be gathered in far-away places. I'll write again when I know more and share what I can at that time. _

_I will be departing a single man. I cannot quite comprehend these past weeks and the courtship of Lady Edith that I wished could have ended in a happy marriage. An incident at the garden party precluded my proposing. Edith's sister, Mary, shared a confidence with me declaring that the night prior to the party Edith was mocking the "old bore" who was to propose to her at said party. I spoke to Catherine Jervas briefly after this conversation and, though Catherine implored me to speak directly to Edith to allow her the opportunity to explain, I did not do so—an action I may regret and am already beginning to regret as so much of what occurred does not make sense now. Yet, you should know when I did spot Edith at the party she was engaged in animated and what appeared to be quite-delightful conversation with a younger male guest whom I did not recognize. Another courtship she was pursuing? I don't know; I do somehow doubt it. It is of no matter now, however, as I am required to fulfill my duty to our country. I'm convincing myself that leaving for war a single man with no wife or (perhaps worse, an expectant wife) is really for the best… _

Anthony finished the letter and sealed it, set it in the post for the morning's delivery. He opened the final letter from his friend, Captain Peter Hanes, and read it by the lamp light of his desk.

_Anthony—_

_My orders arrived last night, in advance of the actual deadline. I pray all is well as we begin this war. I'm sure we'll see each other in London soon. My wife cannot be consoled though she does put up a good front. They've charged me with a brigade that will be presumably on the front lines, which only makes sense given my training. I know it may sound strange, but I've instructed my men to memorize Psalm 91. I know you'll be receiving your instructions soon from Whitehall. Good luck. God be with you and the men you're working with—both for and against. _

_Peter _

Anthony set the post down in front of him and glanced to the heirloom King James that lay at the edge of his desk. Tenderly, he opened the leather-bound cover and reverently turned the pages to Psalm 91. Anthony's thin lips mouthed the words one time through and then again and again...

_He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almight._

_I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust._

_Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence._

_He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler._

_Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day;_

_Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday._

_Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked._

_Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation;_

_There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling._

_For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways._

_They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone._

_Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder: the young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet._

_Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name._

_He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him._

_With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation._

Standing, Anthony left the Book on his desk and slid a paper from a previous post from his desk and held it in his hands, as he took his favorite place by the window. Carefully, he opened the paper with its faded marks. _There are five types of spies, _he re-read for the thousandth time, _according to Sun Tsu…the local, the inside, the reverse, the dead, and the living… _Looking out over Locksley, thinking of all he wanted and how the dream of Edith and their life together had disintegrated in front of him, Anthony Strallan whispered, "God help us."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thank you for reading and reviewing. I hope, despite sticking to canon, that you're enjoying the backstory I've added. I promise some depth and realizations during the war as well. _

_*The dialogue between M/A and E/A is taken directly from the Script book for Series 1._


	11. Chapter 10

A/N: So, the RL stuff I hinted at a bit earlier was that we're in the midst of managing a move halfway across the country…trying to write in the corners and wrinkles of time that I have. Please forgive the absence and any typos and such, and I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for reading!

* * *

><p><em>My Dearest Anthony,<em>

_I cannot comprehend the scene you described at Downton; I cannot fathom the Lady Edith I met at dinner showing the slightest interest in anyone but you. I do hope you have given her a chance to speak or that you have made amends and will write me about an engagement soon. Tell me that she's met you in London and that you two have married in haste given the war? I beg you to speak or write to her, if you haven't already. _

_The war frightens me. Mark is already writing of joining the effort. Please, Anthony, please convince him not to go, that it will not be—as everyone but you has said—a short endeavour. Having you in harm's way is more than my heart can bear, and with him too…_

Anthony finished the letter from his sister with tears in his eyes and immediately began a letter to his nephew, Mark—a short, economical command:

_Mark, _

_I am saying this as an officer and not as your uncle, so do take it seriously: now is not the time. Remain at Cambridge as your mother wishes. You're more valuable to our efforts here in England. _

_Anthony_

The entire estate of Locksley seemed to grieve the broken heart suffered by the baronet the day prior. The anguish of the announced war compounded the already-present pain. He had risen early and visited each of the rooms of his home a final time, allowing appropriate sentiment before the war overtook everything, and now, as he had done in those rooms—let the memories of his life drift to him through the bounds of time and space—Anthony, alone in his library, gave himself one final moment alone with her, one wisp of Edith before his departure. One. Moment. The cut sparkled, every facet brilliant to his glistening blue eyes before his fingers closed the tiny box. Anthony pushed the drawer closed at his desk, his touch lingering at the drawer's handle, and coughing slightly when he heard Stewart arrive.

"Everything's ready, Sir."

"Thank you, Stewart."

Mrs. Brandon couldn't contain her emotions. After an embrace Anthony welcomed from her, the gentleman surrendered two handkerchiefs to his loyal cook and long-time servant.

"All will be well, Mrs. Brandon," he assured her. The two shared a look: the history of years together, of Lady Strallan and happiness, and everything that was and wasn't. Clearing his throat, Anthony blinked and took a breath, fighting back to his well-learned stoicism and Englishness. "I have left specific instructions and will be in touch again soon. Please don't worry."

Too overwhelmed, she could only answer him with muted tears and bowed head.

Stewart drove.

At the train, Anthony and Stewart did not look at one another but at the carriages, the surrounding sky, the other passengers.

"I'll be joining you soon...in the effort, Sir."

"You've enlisted?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You'll be assigned as a sniper."

"Yes, Sir. There's a good chance." A silence. "I benefitted from excellent teachers."

Both smiled, as brothers familiar with secrets yet to be discovered by anyone else.

"Stewart, I've left specific instructions, as you know, and…well, for every scenario."

"Yes, Sir."

"Do take care of yourself. I'll find your posting and write as soon as I'm able?"

"I'd appreciate that very much, Sir."

The final whistle.

Stewart risked a glance and saw Anthony's eyes close tightly for a moment. "Do watch yourself, Sir, and I'll see you soon. 'Twill be over soon, yes?"

"Indeed," Anthony whispered.

Neither believed it.

* * *

><p>Minutes later, Stewart was greeted with Mrs. Brandon's panic at the door of Locksley.<p>

"This just arrived." Mrs. Brandon's eyes, still reddened and puffy from the emotion of Anthony's leaving, were stricken, caught between grief and hope.

The valet saw the handwriting and took a breath, his eyes intent on the lady's script.

"What should we do?" She fidgeted, her soft hands wringing.

"I'll make sure he receives it; it may not be soon."

"But he's already gone—he'll be sent—"

"I know, but we should hear from him soon with an address. When we do, I will make certain it's sent to him."

Stewart's visage brought her worries to an end, his gentle smile enough to bring out a small one of her own.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Tucking the envelope in his breast pocket, Stewart bowed his head and left the room.

Stewart took care of it, as he had promised, to the greatest extent he could—he protected it. All of the posts Anthony received were kept safe in the desk inherited from his father, collected to be sent together to him once an address from him was received; the promised post from Anthony with an actual address never came. Whitehall refused any information to the valet when Stewart inquired; Sarah made no progress either in an effort to help, to gain answers, to plead. The stack, then, in the drawer began in earnest with the first post dated from the evening of August 4, 1914, from Lady Edith Crawley—the first post that would remain unopened for years…

_Dear Anthony,_

_I'm sorry for whatever might have happened yesterday to cause you to want to leave rather early. Was it the announcement of the war? You knew, didn't you? _

_Since I'm not entirely sure about the events of yesterday, I will simply say this: I was hoping to answer your question. _

_You have probably already left, as I know your position to be quite important. I pray you are safe. I'll be here at Downton, of course, if you should have the opportunity to write. I hope you do. _

_Edith_

* * *

><p>The meetings began in a brightly lit room in the furthest corridor as soon as he arrived in London, where the atmosphere already reflected the ominous excitement of war.<p>

"Welcome, Anthony," Broward greeted him, stoic as always, at the door but quickly moved away to the others in attendance.

Anthony felt a tap on his shoulder and turned. "Captain Strallan, Sir. How are you?"

"Well, thank you. And you, Lieutenant?"

"Wonderful," Howard Todd answered. "Except, you know, for this war-stuff." He smiled. Anthony didn't. Todd's watery expression sobered under his colleague's gaze.

The other men present greeted one another, and Anthony took his seat opposite the others already present. Todd joined him on the right and a quieter, timid man placed himself on Anthony's left.

Trains, troop counts, land layouts, allies in business, foreign allies in business, potential tunnel construction, weapons, contacts, biological weapons and countermeasures, chemicals and advancements for sending messages, codes, and the consequences for any mistakes—all of it discussed over endless hours. Photographs spread over the table, images gathered from the policy and negotiation trips. The men didn't notice the photographer enter the room to document this intelligence meeting with a photograph of his own; a testing of the equipment that would be used in the field by them: hand-held cameras.

"Some of our men will be able to use these at a moment's notice, capture what needs to be seen for all of us and provide better intelligence all around."

The cases on the table were passed around and opened to reveal eight cameras of reasonable carrying size that could be snapped closed and tucked into a shoulder bag or a vest pocket at a moment's notice. Each man reached simultaneously for the instruments, examining the equipment carefully and looking to one another, murmuring directions to test it.

"These are test pieces, gentlemen, set to go into production early next year. Foldable," he went on, demonstrating as the men held their own and imitated the movements. "Similar to the Brownie. Notice the autographic feature: the ability to take notes on the back of the paper, of the 127 film." A brief round of impressed brows. "If they improve the product, then we will be ready to get them to you as soon as possible. The advantages are yet unknown; however, I'm sure with your ingenuity you recognize that this camera could help us in any number of ways related to documentation and communication. Easy to transport. Easy to conceal."

Nods around the room as fingers and eyes probed and studied the products, imagined the possibilities.

The meeting went on; Anthony suffered the effects of the others' smoking. Near the end, the gathering looked up.

"And of course, as you arrive at your post, you will not know your counterpart save by the alias he/she will be using—yes, I said 'she.' We have managed to recruit a number of sympathetic individuals. Be prepared. Be knowledgeable and be alert—always. Good luck, gentlemen."

That night, fatigued after the meetings, Anthony sat by the desk light at the Strallan town home, his fingers adjusting his grip on the pen over and over as procrastination and desperation mingled.

_Dear Edith_

Beyond the salutation, words failed him. Sarah had no idea what she had asked of him in urging him to send a letter. Yet, the memories of the summer—their summer, his and Edith's, lingered. What was he to say to her after the party? _I love you. Do you love me? _A letter couldn't possibly convey his feelings. _I understand if there was someone more suited to you_. A lie. The truth. He dropped the pen and ran his hands through his hair in frustration, feeling much the school boy unable to finish the compulsory essay. Anthony poured the brandy and sipped, gazed out on the street from his window, knowing this to be the last night before he left for the continent. The words—and the emotions that came with them—finally began to emerge.

_I came to the garden party with a very specific question: Will you be my wife? Your sister regaled me with a story of mockery—you being pursued by an "old bore" and your portrayal of said man apparently entertaining the entire Crawley family the night before. I knew not of any other man paying his attentions to you, so I knew who she meant. _

_I will be honest: I know not what to believe, for if my feelings are correct then that story cannot possibly be true—and yet, with my own eyes, I saw you chatting to a young man when I thought (hoped) you would be as anxious to see me as I was to see you; thus, I believed Mary. I'm not certain of anything, except that I spent with you some of the most wonderful times of my life, that I truly felt I had found a kindred spirit. _

The clock ticked beside him, louder as the city quieted and the hours of the morning dawned, the nerves of conflict awakening the fear of the life to come and the possibilities of...

_I'm sorry. This is for the best. The war has begun. I pray you're well. _

Torn. Should he say it? Should he tell her? _ Selfish. She should be free… _He simply signed it:

_Anthony _

The envelope expertly sealed; the wound exquisitely ruptured.

The following morning Captain Anthony Strallan posted the letter to Lady Edith Crawley, assumed his new identity, packed away his papers, and, in the journey from London for France, tried desperately to forget his English life…

* * *

><p>Daniel Stewart appeared at Anthony's door in the late months of 1908, barely aged twenty years, untrained but astute. He wore the one suit he owned. His mother sent him; his father left them—for the Second Boer War and hadn't returned. When Stewart met Sir Anthony Strallan, he met a man confronted with tragedy: the first child gone in weeks. Maud Strallan, a gentle, charming woman prone to sharp humor and sudden tears, and Stewart liked and admired her immediately for her tender ways. Anthony, compassionate towards the young man given his formative years, and Stewart, so alike in temperament, shared confidences within a matter of days—similar views, similar talents, and (to Maud's notice) similar looks. "You two could be brothers," she said one of those first afternoons as she lay in her bed, watching the two of them converse quietly in the doorway. The two men grinned first at her and then studied one another, with Anthony remarking self-deprecatingly on the fact that Stewart was clearly the more handsome "brother."<p>

Seven weeks after Anthony's departure to London, September of 1914, when he determined that all was well with Locksley and the soldier's enlistment process properly efficient, Stewart penned a letter to Mrs. Brandon, one to Mr. Keller, the farm manager, and one to Anthony in the designated drawer—should the valet fail to return to his master—and then Stewart took a last long look in each of the rooms at Locksley, just as Anthony had done his last day at the estate. The valet dutifully closed the doors afterwards, embraced a once-again emotional Mrs. Brandon, and left with the one bag he'd arrived with years before when he began his employment. Instead of driving, in an effort to leave everything accounted for at the estate, Stewart walked to the station. In a matter of hours, Daniel Stewart stood and took his oath, was issued his uniform and supplies, and given his rifle…


End file.
